El Hombre que Llora las Lágrimas de Sangre
by Intuitive
Summary: Despite the title, this IS in English. Part One now complete!
1. Rescue?

The sun was going down.  
  
At least, the man called Sands was pretty sure it was. Leaning heavily against the stucco wall of a building, he gingerly probed the bullet wound in his bicep with a gloved finger.  
  
It's difficult to examine one's injuries when you've got no eyes.  
  
Cursing under the cover of his shallow, fast breathing, he rocked his head back against the wall. For the first time in a very long while, the anger against the world that had burned like a white hot flame in his heart was absent. His life was nearly over, and he knew it. He didn't know whether a bullet out of the gathering darkness would end it quickly, mercifully, or whether he would bleed slowly to death in this dusty, deserted street.  
  
Mercifully.  
  
The thought of the word brought the slightest of bitter smiles to his lips. No mercy for the wicked. Even less for the innocent. That was the way the world worked, he knew. Maybe, if he was lucky, a survivor from Barillo's cartel, or Marquez's army, or even someone who had fought for El Presidente might find him before too long. If he was really lucky, there'd be a bullet in his skull before the night was out.  
  
He slid partway down the wall, trying to sit, but pain from the gunshot wound in his leg made him nearly black out. Slowly, agonizing inch by agonizing inch, he eased back into his former leaning/standing position. Silently, he prayed for the killer he knew should be coming for him. The pain was unendurable.  
  
Footsteps.  
  
Agent Sands of the CIA was not a religious man. In fact, he was a cold-blooded murderer, adulterer, liar, and manipulator. But at that very moment, he sincerely believed his prayers had been answered. He heard the click of a gun's safety being released, loud in the silent street.  
  
"Aren't you going to run, Senor?" asked a throaty female voice with an elegant Mexican accent.  
  
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not," he retorted. "I'd hate to run the risk of you missing what you shot at. Neither of us would want that."  
  
"You are so sure of what I want, then?" the woman asked. Her voice sounded closer, but he hadn't heard her move.  
  
"Fairly," he replied. "I shot you. I'm reasonably certain they could repaint that entire courtyard with the blood you lost, so it stands to reason you'd want revenge, if indeed, as it seems, you're still alive."  
  
"Senor, I believe this is what Americans call a 'case of mistaken identity'. I assure you that that you have never met me, let alone attempted to kill me," the woman said with great finality.  
  
"No?" he answered bitterly. "That's too bad. I was hoping I had, so that you might return the favor."  
  
She laughed, and asked, "Is this how you want to die, Senor? By my hand, in an empty street, with no one to hear or care? Is your life worth so little in your sight, Senor?"  
  
Sands sneered, and said, "Sight makes very little impression on me at the moment." He waved a hand in front of his face, taking in the dark sunglasses and the blood that still oozed down his cheeks, jaw, and neck with a sweeping gesture. Under the cover of the movement, he reached across his body with his good arm and yanked out his handgun, pointing it vaguely at the place where he thought she stood.  
  
She laughed again- from a totally different location. He adjusted his aim as best he could. "Going to shoot me, Senor?" she asked. "How will you hit what you cannot find?" He snapped off a shot, but there was no answering scream.  
  
Something brushed his cheek. He gasped and brought the gun to bear, but someone- the woman -snatched it from his grip and, to his great surprise, returned it to its holster at his hip. "El hombre que llora las lágrimas de sangre," she observed, stroking his face with cool, delicate fingers.  
  
She brushed the tips of two fingers over his lips. He could taste his own blood on them. Then she pressed herself lightly against him and kissed him, almost experimentally. He neither responded nor resisted.  
  
Drawing back, she said, "I do not know, Senor, if today is the luckiest or unluckiest day of your life, but I do know that you will live through it, and possibly even through tomorrow as well."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Porque, posiblemente, I believe you deserve a second chance at life," she replied.  
  
"Sure," he drawled. "More like you need me for something. I'm willing to bet I'm worth a few thousand pesos to someone or other by now- the cartels, maybe. So is the price greater for me alive than dead, or what?"  
  
"All in good time," she said. "For now, you must trust me." She eased his uninjured arm over her shoulders and slid her arm around his waist in a rescue-carry. "Come, my home is not far from here."  
  
"And if I refuse?" he asked.  
  
"You're in no shape to refuse," she observed. "But if you are inclined to try, I assure you that I have ways of making you cooperate."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"I suspect it would hurt a great deal to be shot... say... here," she said conversationally, and made it quite clear exactly where she meant.  
  
Sands swallowed, and muttered, "Ok, well, I'm just going to freak right out."  
  
"Save your strength," she advised, sounding amused, then added ominously, "You're going to need it." 


	2. Ella

I might as well make this clear now, and save you all any potential irritation; I have a thing about people swearing. Namely, I despise it, but as this is Once Upon a Time, it happens. So you'll forgive me if I * some stuff out. Some I might leave for dramatic effect, though, so... What am I saying, anyway?  
  
raquedan: of course it is! LOL, enjoy!  
  
Merrie: emphasis on the 'devilishly handsome' bit, I think!  
  
Gypsy: Helpful and wonderful? Wanna bet? *evil, sands-esque grin*  
  
Erinya: Thanks, as always, for your reviews and support! BTW, "Jack" wants to know where the rum went. You're sure you don't want the little feathery ingrate?  
  
Miss Becky: Thanks for reading! ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
How far, exactly, they walked Sands couldn't say. His arm, leg, and face blazed with agony; every step was torture. Even when in terrible pain, however, he was still an agent, still an investigator.  
  
As the journey went on he put more and more of his weight on the woman's shoulders, but she made no comment, nor did her pace change in the slightest. His good arm was across the back of her neck and shoulders, so he had a good idea of her height- perhaps two or three inches shorter than himself. She was slender, he could tell, and in good shape. Probably beautiful. In fact, she felt pretty good pressed against his body, injuries (and unusual circumstances) or no.  
  
'Maybe I should have kept that T-shirt.'  
  
"Estamos aqui," she announced. "Watch your step."  
  
"Very funny," Sands snarled.  
  
"Lo siento."  
  
They took several steps into a building of some kind that smelled vaguely of something he couldn't quite identify. "Home, sweet home," she said sarcastically, stepping away from him. "Gun belt, please, and any other little surprises you might be carrying. Ahora!"  
  
"Why do I sense there's a gun pointed at my head right now?" he asked wearily, unfastening the gun belt from his hips and shoulders and holding it out blindly. She took it, and he heard the sound of a wooden drawer open and close, and the click of an old-fashioned key.  
  
"Muchas gracias, Senor," she drawled.  
  
"**** you."  
  
"Come now, is that any way to talk to the woman who saved your life?" she teased, taking his hand possessively and backing him up a few steps. The backs of his knees encountered something unexpectedly, and he would have fallen had she not caught him. The wound in his thigh broke open and started bleeding heavily again.  
  
She eased him into a sitting position on what he now was pretty sure was a bed. He brushed a hand over it, and his fingers encountered plastic over a yielding surface.  
  
"What's this?" he asked, turning his head to 'look' at where he was pretty sure she stood.  
  
"That, Senor," she said, giving the impression that she was talking to a slow four-year-old, "Is my bed."  
  
"You don't waste time, do you, Miss...?" he trailed off, hoping she'd give him a name he might recognize.  
  
"You may call me 'ella' for now. Perhaps, later, I will tell you my name." She pronounced the 'll' as a y.  
  
If he'd had eyes, Sands probably would have rolled them. "And the plastic?"  
  
"I can't have you getting it all bloody, now can I, Senor?" she asked sweetly. He heard what sounded vaguely like someone dialing a cellular phone.  
  
"Speaking of blood," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, "That's what you were after, wasn't it? When you kissed me."  
  
"Hey, very good," she acknowledged casually. "Let's see if you can get two out of two. What am I doing with it now?"  
  
Mockingly adopting the pose of 'The Thinker', he answered slowly, "You'd be accessing the CIA database on some kind of very expensive and highly illegal wireless device, checking the DNA in my blood against the DNA in their files."  
  
He could almost see her smirk as she answered, "I'd give that a 1.5 out of two. Congratulations. Clearly you had beauty AND brains at one point in your life. At least your brains are still intact, mas o menos. My, my," she added coolly, "Not the CIA's most popular agent, now were we? Looks like you were one step away from being fired, doesn't it, Senor? Perhaps that is why your beat was here in Mexico when all your little government agent friends were assigned elsewhere?"  
  
"I'm still with the CIA," he corrected.  
  
"Not anymore," she said coldly. "Now you are with me."  
  
He laughed bitterly. "Confident little ramera, aren't you?"  
  
"Y tu mama tambien," she answered easily, snapping the device closed with an audible click.  
  
"Bueno, Sands, now to business," she said. He heard the sound of a drawer opening and closing once again, and the clink of many small, metal objects knocking together.  
  
Sounding slightly nervous, he asked, "So what was the half a point that I missed?"  
  
"The more obvious of the two, I should think," she informed him. He felt the mattress sink slightly as she sat down next to him. "I wanted to know what the cartel put in your bloodstream before they took your eyes. I wanted to be sure my... treatment... wouldn't kill you." She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, surprising him.  
  
He lunged away from her, but tripped and fell heavily on the tiled floor, trying and failing to bite back a cry of pain. She was at his side in an instant, lifting him back onto his feet. She was surprisingly strong for her size.  
  
She forced him to lie down on the bed, saying, "What did I tell you about trusting me?"  
  
"Just what are you going to do to me?" he demanded, voice rising.  
  
"Those bullets have to come out so you can heal," she said, tapping his arm and leg in turn, making him flinch. "Also I will do what I can for your eyes, such as they are."  
  
"No anesthetic?" he said weakly, grimacing.  
  
"Bienvenido a Mexico, mi amor," she said sarcastically. "I hope you took my advice about saving your strength, because this is gonna hurt like hell."  
  
*  
  
She helped him remove his vest, then she cut the sleeve of his shirt away from the wound in his arm and set about removing the bullet. Sands gritted his teeth, hissing with pain but stubbornly refusing to cry out.  
  
The wound bled some more when she finally got the bullet out, but she quickly disinfected it with something that smelled foul and stung like beestings and bandaged it tightly, stopping the bleeding.  
  
She cut the leg of his black jeans off almost at the hip. The fabric was stiff with blood. He heard her draw her breath in sharply and mutter, "Ay, mierda..." under her breath.  
  
"That bad?" he asked, sounding slightly hoarse.  
  
"It is very near the bone, Senor, very near," she answered, sounding worried.  
  
"You'll be able to get it out, though?" he asked, sounding none too sure himself.  
  
She lapsed into spanish in agitation, replying, "Si, pero será difícil y muy doloroso. Difficult and very painful."  
  
"**** painful," he said stoically, offering a small smile. "I'll be all right."  
  
She didn't reply, but merely set grimly to work.  
  
As it turned out, it wasn't as painful as he expected, because he fainted three minutes later. 


	3. El

QueenoftheDamned: Here's your update. Wanna know what she's all about? ;- ) Don't we all?  
  
Miss Becky: Yeah, it is kinda tough to write from a blind guy's point of view. In fact, this was a challenge for me, because I usually like to write from the POV of a girl- but then, we wouldn't have half the suspense if I did, would we? I usually hate writing guys, but... I admit, this is fun.  
  
Merrie: You poor soul. I like to include the spanish to keep things authentic, but you may have a point, so how about this- if I use a lot that you can't figure out by context clues, I'll include a translation at the end, how's that?  
  
ThePinkPanther: Thanks for reading, and hang around- this is gonna be one heck of a story.  
  
Raquedan: One shot only? Me? Never! ;-)  
  
Erinya: Yeah, that's why she kissed him. That, and authorly indulgence, LOL. Congratulations, BTW, you were the only one who mentioned the Sleepy Hollow reference.  
  
AgentSands-CIA: Thanks for reading and reviewing. If, as I suspect, you're new to fanfiction.net, welcome to the club.  
  
Beguile- Perfect? Me? No... well, maybe a little... *big smile* Thanks!  
  
DemonicLittleGirl- Consider this your dose of Sands. Try not to drool too much. ;-)  
  
froda-baggins: ulterior motives? my sweet, simple, completely up front and honest main character? *tries and fails to look innocent*  
  
************************************************************************  
  
-You've simply... seen too much...-  
  
-A needle pricks the skin of his arm...-  
  
-A rush, like fire in his veins.-  
  
-The whir of a small motor.-  
  
-Pain... blood... blackness...-  
  
Oh God, I'm blind. I can't see my hand in front of my face. My face- slick with my own blood. I can hear her laughing- Ajedrez.  
  
Distantly, I recall the meaning of the name- chess.  
  
I played her game, tried to use her like a pawn.  
  
I lost.  
  
And now I'm going to die.  
  
Oh, God...  
  
The man called Sands awoke with a start, sweating and shaking. He tried to sit up, but the movement made him so dizzy that he fell back again. He recognized distantly that he was no longer lying on plastic, but on what felt like a quilt or blanket.  
  
He raised a trembling hand to his face. His fingers encountered more fabric of a rougher variety- there was bandage over the empty sockets of his eyes. His sunglasses were nowhere to be found.  
  
His mouth was dry, and he swallowed painfully several times.  
  
"I thought perhaps you would not wake," 'ella' observed. He felt the bed sink a little as she sat on the edge. "How do you feel?"  
  
He tried to reply, but his throat was too dry. He heard a sound that lead him to suspect she had clapped her hand to her forehead in dismay. "Thirsty, of course."  
  
She helped him sit up and drink two glasses of water. He would have stopped after one, but she insisted he drink a second, with much the air of a mother coaxing a small child to take his medicine. "It will help get the last of the cartel's drug out of your system," she explained.  
  
Agent Sands was not a courteous man, but at least he was rarely at a loss for words. Now, however, he had very little idea of what he wanted to say to her, whoever she was. "Um," he began after a pause, "I... Thank you. I think."  
  
She laughed a little. "So uncertain, Senor?"  
  
"Well, let's see," he snapped, his frustration getting the better of him, "I don't know who you are, or who you're working for, or why you saved my life- I can't even see what you look like because of that b**** Ajedrez!"  
  
She sighed. "I cannot tell you any of these things, not yet, but if you want to know what I look like, here."  
  
She took his right hand and raised it to her face, so that his fingertips brushed the smooth skin of her cheek. He hesitated, suspicious, but she held perfectly still. Hesitantly, then with greater confidence, he traced his fingertips over her cheek, feeling her prominent cheekbones, her nose, the soft skin of her eyelids, her lips.  
  
A phone rang, and he stiffened and jerked his hand away.  
  
She laughed again, got up, and went to answer it. She made no effort to lower her voice as she conversed with whoever had called, so he caught every word. Her tone was businesslike as she said, "¿Qué? Sí. Sí, señor. Sí. El está aquí. No, él no murió. ¡No! Yo no tengo la menor idea. Unos pocos días por lo menos, posiblemente una semana. No, yo no lo disparé. Señor, no me insulta. Sí, señor. Una semana, entonces. Entiendo. Adiós."  
  
She hung up and muttered something that sounded distinctly rude under her breath.  
  
"Friend of yours?" he asked, managing to sit up at last with his back against the wall (the bed was pushed into a corner).  
  
"A business associate," she corrected casually. "He wanted to know how you were doing."  
  
"I'm deeply touched by his concern," Sands said irritably, "But if he's so interested, why doesn't he stop by and find out for himself?"  
  
"To be perfectly honest, which is rare for me, he is afraid of you, I think," she answered thoughtfully.  
  
"Of a wounded, blind CIA agent who is at the mercy of a woman he doesn't even know?" he demanded, managing to give her a good approximation of an incredulous stare even with the bandage wrapped around his head.  
  
"Of the man who caused all this mess," she corrected. "Of the man who restored the balance to Mexico. Of the man who-" She broke off abruptly.  
  
A moment of silence and then- the jingle of chains and the tap of footsteps outside. A knock on the door.  
  
"Here, take this," she said shortly. She tossed something at him, and somewhat to his own surprise he managed to catch it. A handgun, with a silencer.  
  
"You trust me at your back with this?" he demanded.  
  
"Shut up!" she snarled. He heard her draw her own weapon and cross the room to stand near the door. "¿Quién hay?" she demanded.  
  
The door creaked open, and someone stepped into the room. Sands heard the sound of something hard striking flesh, an agonized grunt, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. He leveled his weapon at the source of the noise, but 'ella' snapped, "Don't shoot!" then, "El!"  
  
"Oh, ****," Sands muttered, lowering the gun. The absolute last person he wanted to see at this point was 'El Mariachi', so naturally the universe saw fit to drop him right on his doorstep. He heard the door close.  
  
"What the hell did you kick me for?" El demanded, still on the floor.  
  
"I didn't know it was you, Senor," 'ella' answered. "I can take no chances, especially now. I take it you came to see my guest?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking. Where-" El began, cutting off sharply.  
  
He got up off the floor and Sands heard him walk deliberately over to stand next to the bed, and demand roughly, "What happened to you?"  
  
"You remember Ajedrez?" Sands asked bitterly. "Or should I say, Miss Barillo?"  
  
"His daughter?"  
  
Sands grimaced. "Something like that. She and I had a little disagreement."  
  
"Uh huh," said El emphatically. "So did you kill her favorite cook or what?"  
  
"Oh, you're funny as hell, aren't you?" Sands snarled, now aiming the gun he held at El's head. "Shouldn't you be out having dinner with the president or something, oh great son of Mexico? That's what they're calling you, you know." Sands' lips were curled in a snarl of rage as he added viciously, "So you killed Marquez, huh. Got your precious revenge, didn't you? Did Carolina come back from the dead, then? Did your brat of a daughter?"  
  
El made no reply. He reached down and twisted the barrel of the gun away from himself so that it pointed at the wall, and struck Sands viciously across the face with the back of his free hand. The agent's head snapped back and smacked against the wall, making him swear filthily.  
  
"Do not EVER speak of them again," El said in a soft and deadly voice, "Or I will kill you myself."  
  
"Then leave me the **** alone and you won't have to worry about it!" Sands panted, gritting his teeth.  
  
El wrenched the gun out of his hand completely, and for a moment Sands thought his life was about to end, but then El turned, his costume jingling, and walked away.  
  
"You shouldn't have given him this," Sands heard El inform 'ella'.  
  
"He's a dead shot, even blind," she replied, sounding vaguely amused by the whole affair. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?"  
  
"Yes," El said. "I wanted to tell you that the cartel is still intact, mas o menos, and they are looking for your injured friend. They may come for him as soon as tonight, if they find out where he is."  
  
"Muchas gracias, senor," she replied. "I thought they might be. I'll be ready for them."  
  
"I would expect no less of you," El answered. "I would say, stay here only as long as you have to. When he is well enough to travel, leave."  
  
"I had planned on it," she said, and added, "You are welcome to stay, of course, Senor, if you wish."  
  
El's voice was noticeably softer as he said, "I must go. El presidente may still be in danger. You will be all right?"  
  
"Oh, I'll manage, one way or another," she said dryly. "Just like always."  
  
"It is not like always," El argued. "He is with you." The mariachi put a world of contempt in just those few simple words.  
  
"I'll be alright," she answered firmly.  
  
El did not reply, but slammed the door behind himself as he left.  
  
"What was THAT about?" Sands demanded after a moment.  
  
"He doesn't like you much," she drawled, walking over and sitting back down on the bed.  
  
"No shit," Sands snarled, rubbing his face where El had struck him. "I meant his ever so sweet concern for you."  
  
'Ella' snorted. "Oh, I think he is reminded of his Carolina when he sees me."  
  
"I reminded him of his precious Carolina too," Sands pointed out, "I notice he didn't backhand you."  
  
"If you are trying to ask me if there was ever anything beyond friendship between El and myself, the answer is no," she said bluntly.  
  
"So you're friends?" Sands pressed, leaning forward and trying very hard to ignore the headache he was getting from being struck across the face.  
  
"Yes, oddly enough," she said, and chuckled quietly to herself.  
  
"Why is that funny?" he asked.  
  
"To explain, you would have to know my name- my real name," she said. "I suppose our friendship could be called ironic, in light of recent events."  
  
"And what is your real name?"  
  
"Estrella Graciela Barillo Sanchez."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
A/N: In most spanish speaking countries, a person's proper full name is written as follows:  
  
(first name) (middle name) (father's last name) (mother's last name)  
  
Savvy?  
  
Phone conversation translation: What? Yes. Yes, sir. Yes. He is here. No, he isn't dead. No! I have no idea. A few more days at least, possibly a week. No, I didn't shoot him. Sir, do not insult me. Yes, sir. A week, then. I understand. Goodbye. 


	4. Questions

"Barillo," said Sands neutrally. His mind was strangely empty, perfectly blank, neither accepting nor denying the implications of this deceptively simple statement.  
  
I lost...  
  
"The late Senor Barillo was your father?" he asked wearily, resignation and defeat making his voice flat.  
  
She laughed mockingly. "This isn't Star Wars, Sands," she drawled. "The late Senor was my uncle, my father's brother."  
  
His mind was no longer blank. One the contrary, it was flooded with a hatred so pure, its fire burned the pain and weakness from his body. Equal parts of hatred for Barillo and all his kin and self-hatred for falling into their traps twice swirled blackly in his head.  
  
He forced his voice to stay calm as he asked, "You still have that gun in your hand?"  
  
"Si," she answered slowly. "Por que?"  
  
"Good."  
  
His first punch was slightly off, clipping her on the cheekbone hard enough to spin her around and knock her off the bed. His second punch connected solidly with her abdomen, and he heard her swear breathlessly. He kicked her in the ribs, putting all the force of his anger behind the blow, and she fell to the floor with a satisfying thud.  
  
Sands lunged after her and wrenched the gun out of her hand. She struggled, but he struck her in the side of the head with the butt of the gun, and drove another kick into her side. He stepped away from her, leveling the gun at her, her ragged breathing loud in his ears.  
  
Half of him wanted to continue beating her, to feel her delicate bones shatter under his blows, to make her suffer, to pay her and her family back for the agony they had put him through. Another part of him wanted desperately to hear her scream as he shot her, to end her life as his had so nearly ended. Decisions, decisions.  
  
"Going... to shoot me?" she asked, her voice strained and hoarse.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," he said conversationally. "Seems too easy, somehow."  
  
"Si... it... would be," she agreed, her voice regaining some of its strength.  
  
"How so?" he asked, with the air of one inquiring after the weather in a faraway place he has never been to and furthermore has no desire to visit.  
  
She laughed mirthlessly and said, "I survived the deaths of both my parents in a drug-related hit. I survived years of working as an enforcer for my uncle's cartel. I survived working under cover in the AFN on my uncle's orders. When the time came, I betrayed the AFN and killed six of their agents to protect my uncle, who turned right around and sold me out to the government and set an American CIA agent after me. I killed the agent, too. And now things come full circle, and here is a CIA agent about to kill me."  
  
"Where do I fit into all this?" Sands asked. "As another feather in your hat? Or is it a notch in the grip of your gun?"  
  
"No," she said seriously. "I saved your life because I believed you didn't deserve to die."  
  
"Bullshit," Sands snapped. "You saved me just to sell me to whoever would pay the most for me. So who was it gonna be, then? The cartels? The president? Who?"  
  
"The president has offered one million dollars for you," she muttered. "The Barillo cartel, two million. The Guerro cartel, five million."  
  
"Sold, to the highest bidder," Sands murmured, thinking hard. "Why are the Guerros looking for me? They hate the president and the Barillos, so what do I have to do with them? Why should they want to kill me?"  
  
"That's just it, they don't," she said. "Miguel Guerro wants to speak with you in person, and he's willing to pay five million dollars for the privilege. Why, I don't know. Personally, after spending a few hours in your company, I'd say he should save his money, but that's just me."  
  
"Well, how nice of him," Sands said sarcastically. "Any guesses as to what about?"  
  
"Yo no tengo la menor idea," she said casually. "It was Miguel who called not long ago, of course. I was to take you to see him in a week, when you are well enough to travel."  
  
"That's interesting," said Sands smoothly. "That's very interesting. So interesting, in fact, that I think I might let you live long enough to take me to see this Miguel Guerro." He lowered the gun.  
  
"You're too kind, Senor," she said sarcastically, getting slowly to her feet. 


	5. The Kid in the Yellow Tshirt

Sorry, sorry! Apologies all around to all you non-Spanish speakers! Here's the same chapter, re-posted with translations! ******************************************************************  
  
There was a soft tapping on the door.  
  
Sands and Estrella both turned to face it at the same moment, Sands aiming the gun at what he judged would be chest level for the person outside the door.  
  
"Expecting company?" he demanded of Estrella.  
  
"No," she said shortly, then added sarcastically, "You?"  
  
"No."  
  
She walked over to the door, and he could hear that she was favoring one leg slightly. The door creaked slowly open-  
  
"Senor, senor!" a youthful voice exclaimed, and something slammed into Sands hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and wrapped its arms enthusiastically around his waist.  
  
"Hi, kid," said Sands, trying and failing to free himself from the boy's vice-like hug. "Listen, would you mind letting go? I need to breathe."  
  
Sands heard a choking sound- Estrella trying to smother giggles. "Friend of yours?" she asked.  
  
"My seeing eye dog," he corrected, finally succeeding in prying the child loose. To the boy he added, "What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to **** off?"  
  
"Si, senor," the boy replied breathlessly.  
  
"Then why didn't you?"  
  
The boy took his free hand in both of his own, and answered cheerily, "Me gustas tu, Senor!" (I like/love you, sir!)  
  
Sands looked utterly revolted. Turning to Estrella he demanded, "I shouldn't like the connotations on that, should I?"  
  
"Marco has an inexplicable fondness for Americans," she said dryly, closing the door. "Particularly for you, it seems. I never would have guessed at this softer side of your nature," she informed him, her voice heavy with irony.  
  
"Oh, shut up," Sands growled. "I didn't break any bones, now did I?"  
  
"Senorita, qué sucedió a su cara?" the boy asked, tugging Sands over to stand in front of her. (What happened to your face?)  
  
"Your friend and I had a bit of an argument," she explained.  
  
"Él le lastimó, senorita?" he asked. (Did he hurt you?)  
  
"Did he hurt me?" she repeated, and although she appeared to be answering Marco's question, Sands could tell that she was speaking to him. "Yes, but I think we understand each other now, better than we did before."  
  
"Pienso que es malo que él le golpeó, pero él no es un mal hombre," the boy announced. (I think it's bad that he hit you, but he isn't a bad man.)  
  
"You think so?" she asked.  
  
"Si," Marco answered firmly.  
  
"So do I," she said softly.  
  
For a few seconds there was silence, then Sands swallowed and forced himself to speak. "Why are you here, kid?"  
  
The boy's tone darkened as he said, "Senor, hombres del cártel de Barillo le está buscando." (Men from the Barillo cartel are looking for you.)  
  
"We already know," Estrella said grimly. "El mariachi paid a visit to your wounded friend, and he told us."  
  
"El mariachi?" the boy exclaimed excitedly. "¿Ahora está él aquí? ¿Él está permaneciendo con usted?" (Is he here now? Is he staying with you?)  
  
"No," she said uncomfortably. "No, he isn't staying with me. He had to go help the president. Thanks for telling us about the cartel, though."  
  
"Ningún problema," Marco said brightly. "Bien, tengo que ir ahora como la cena con mi abuela. Adiós!" (No problem. Well, I have to go now and eat dinner with my grandma. Bye!)  
  
He gave Sands another rib-cracking but thankfully brief hug and dashed out the door, slamming it loudly behind him, and leaving Sands and Estrella standing awkwardly in the suddenly very quiet room.  
  
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A/N: Sorry it's so short and not too exciting, but I have to do homework now... Yeah, homework. Sad, isn't it? Anyway, stick around, cuz I think the next update is going to be interesting.... 


	6. Pistolero

Estrella covered the awkward moment by turning away from him and locking the door, saying jokingly, "No more visitors for my patient today! He should be resting!"  
  
"No, actually he should be getting some answers out of his nurse," Sands corrected.  
  
"Answers?" she asked, with her back to him.  
  
"Yeah. Specifically, an answer to that famous question: Why did you lie to me?"  
  
"I lied to you, Senor?" Her casual tone betrayed nothing.  
  
"You said there was never anything between you and El but friendship," he said, dangerously calm.  
  
"Ah, and what is that to you?" she demanded, her voice tight with irritation.  
  
"Well, that's really the question, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically. He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her around. He ran his fingers slowly down the side of her face and neck. Her skin was silk under his fingertips. "What if I told you I wanted you for myself?"  
  
She jerked away from his touch and snarled, "I'd tell you to go **** yourself! Talk to me again when my bruises fade!" She rushed to the door, unlocked it, and fled.  
  
Sands stood for a long time in the open door, then shook his head and pulled it shut, muttering, "Why the hell did I just do that? I am DEFINITELY with stupid."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella's mind spun in crazy circles as she stormed down the dusty street in the growing darkness. Automatically, she scanned the darkness for some evidence of her favorite distraction from reality- a little trouble.  
  
She resolutely turned her thoughts away from Sands, away from thoughts of the sound of his voice, the touch of his elegant hands, the taste of his lips... Her bruised cheekbone gave a particularly painful throb, and she cursed under her breath as she strode along.  
  
Her black clothing clung to her like a second skin, granting her a certain degree of camouflage in the fading light- just another shadow in a world of darkness.  
  
What was it about him that captivated her so? Certainly he was handsome, but then, so were many other men, and she had never been one to stare awestruck at a handsome face. Perhaps it was his contempt for all life save his own, or the clear and present aura of danger that followed him wherever he went. Even lying unconscious on her bed, the man had the unmistakable feel of a killer. Estrella shivered a little as she imagined what it must have been like to look into his eyes...  
  
She hadn't gone more than a block or two when she heard the sounds of a fight. She picked up her pace, checking the pair of pistols she carried as she did so. Three men had a young boy trapped in the mouth of an alley. The boy was on his hands and knees in the dirt. Two of the men were kicking him and laughing. The third, taller and clearly the leader of the group, was standing slightly apart from the other two, watching them with a smile on his face. There was a gun in his hand.  
  
The boy bravely made a lunge at one of his captors, but the man snapped a kick into his face. The boy's nose began to bleed, splashing scarlet onto his dusty T-shirt. His dusty, yellow T-shirt.  
  
Estrella muttered another curse as she recognized Marco. She guessed at once who these men must be- members of the Barillo cartel, looking for Sands. They must have caught the boy as he was walking home for dinner. He must have let something slip, something that told them he might know where Sands was hiding.  
  
Stopping about thirty feet away, she fixed her black-eyed stare on the leader's ugly, pock-marked face and called challengingly, "Hey, pistolero!"  
  
All three of them glanced up, shock written on their faces. The leader raised an eyebrow at her, and answered, "Qué podemos hacer nosotros para tú, niña?" (What can we do for you, little girl?)  
  
She favored him with an insolent grin and a long, up and down look. "You in particular? Nothing."  
  
He rolled his eyes as the other two sniggered, their attention now focused on her rather than on Marco, who promptly sprang to his feet and sprinted away at top speed.  
  
The two underlings started after him, but their leader stopped them short with a gesture. "Permita que él vaya. Tráigamela a mí en lugar. Quizás ella dirá nosotros lo que él hace no." (Let him go. Bring her to me instead. Perhaps she will tell us what he would not.)  
  
The two underlings walked purposefully toward her, each displaying the rolling swagger of men who want to be seen, and seen as stalking prey. Estrella nearly burst out laughing, and decided on reflection that she really didn't need her guns at the moment.  
  
She stood impassively, her arms folded across her chest, her legs braced, as they spread out to come at her from either side. She gave herself a mental countdown.  
  
Three... two... one...  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands found a way to amuse himself in fairly short order.  
  
He sat cross-legged on the bed, the gun in his lap, and listened very carefully.  
  
There it was. The soft scratching of six tiny legs on the tiled floor. As quietly as he could, he took aim, and fired three times in quick succession.  
  
He waited a moment, listening again. Silence.  
  
A grin crept across his face. Sure, Estrella might be pissed that he was blowing silver-dollar-sized holes in the floor, but he was pretty sure he had eliminated at least half of the really big cockroaches in the building.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
The man on her left grabbed her wrist and yanked, trying to throw her off balance. She went with it, using the force of his pull to help her wind up for the punch that she drove into his windpipe. He let go and staggered back, gasping and clutching his throat. She finished him with a roundhouse kick to the head, feeling his skull fracture as she connected. He went down hard and lay very, very still.  
  
She used the momentum of her kick to carry her around 180 degrees to face her second opponent. He had a knife, and clearly fancied that he knew how to use it. She smirked, and went on the offensive.  
  
Five seconds later, it was all over.  
  
She fastidiously dusted off the sleeves of her shirt, and flexed her fingers several times, watching the leader out of the corner of her eye. He was no longer smiling.  
  
He holstered his gun and strode purposefully toward her, with none of the swagger or posturing that she had seen in the other two.  
  
She was suddenly struck by how very tall and brawny he was. His shoulders were nearly twice the width of her own.  
  
As it turned out, he was also incredibly fast. His first punch came in high, and she ducked, barely avoiding it in time. She kicked his knee, trying to break his kneecap and end the fight quickly, but it was like kicking a brick wall. His return punch slammed into her solar plexus, sending her flying. Her head struck the hard-packed dirt as she landed sprawled in a heap, seeing black spots as her eyes watered with pain.  
  
He reached down and lifted her bodily onto her feet with one hand, jamming his gun into the hollow of her throat at the same time. She met his cold-eyed gaze and sniffed in elegant disdain. He stank of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sweat. He smiled at her, showing horrible, blackened teeth. She spat in his face.  
  
He cursed and threw her down, making her head smack against the wall a second time. She grimaced and shook her head, trying to clear it. She started to get up, but he fired two shots in rapid succession, inches from her head, forcing her back down. The sound echoed loudly in the otherwise silent street. She flinched.  
  
He sneered derisively down at her, and growled, "Ahora tu dirá mí lo que quiero saber. Dónde está el agente de la CIA?" (Now you will tell me what I want to know. Where is the CIA agent?"  
  
"Qué agente?" she asked sweetly, widening her eyes. (What agent?)  
  
He kicked her viciously, making her cry out, and spat, "Tu dirá mí donde él es, o tu morirá!" (You will tell me where he is, or you will die!)  
  
She made a show of examining her fingernails, and inquired, "Why should I tell you? You're going to kill me anyway. Besides, now that I think about it, I've grown rather fond of him, so... no, I don't think I'll tell you."  
  
He fired again over her head, showering her with dust and bits of stucco.  
  
She laughed in his face.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands heard the shots echo from not too far away. He immediately abandoned his game, and sprang lightly onto the floor, wincing as his wounded leg took his weight.  
  
He supposed he was crazy to go out and look for trouble at this point, as badly hurt as he was, but then, sanity had never been his strong suit.  
  
He wished briefly for his gun belt, but decided reluctantly that he didn't have time to pick the lock on the drawer and get it.  
  
Sands walked quickly to the door, pausing a moment to listen, leaning casually against the doorframe. Another shot rang out, and he set off towards the source of the sound, like a moth drawn to a bright light.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella knew she couldn't last much longer. After his third shot had failed to scare an answer out of her, the man seemed to decide that the best way to get what he wanted was to beat the information out of her.  
  
He had managed to wrestle her gun away from her, and had tossed it somewhere behind them in the shadows of the alleyway. She turned her head slightly to look for it, but another punch brought her sharply back to reality. She doubted she could walk on her own, let alone try and get her gun.  
  
The man raised his hand again, and she flinched in anticipation, but he paused long enough to ask, "Dónde está él? Dónde está su amigo de la CIA?" He mocked her, asking, "Viene él salvarlo?" (Where is he? Where is your CIA friend? Is he coming to save you?)  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands heard the sound of heavy blows striking flesh as he reached the mouth of an alley. He heard a rough voice speaking spanish, asking, "Where is he? Where is your CIA friend? Is he coming to save you?"  
  
A female voice answered defiantly, "I think not. He is smarter than I am- he will stay far ahead of you!"  
  
"Estrella?" he called.  
  
"Here," she answered promptly.  
  
"What have I told you about going out to play after dark?" he demanded in mock exasperation.  
  
"Not a thing," she retorted. "So is this just a social call, or are you going to help me?"  
  
"Oh, gosh," he said apologetically, "I'm sorry, I nearly forgot." He fired three shots without bothering to aim.  
  
All three caught the man who had spoken in the chest. He collapsed in a heap.  
  
Sands waited, but she didn't get up.  
  
He ran to her side and knelt down in the dust, reaching out blindly for her with one hand. She caught it in a firm grip of her own, and said, "Help me up."  
  
He pulled her carefully onto her feet, but she swayed dangerously, gripping his hand. Her fingers were slick with blood. He swallowed hard and asked, "Is all that yours?"  
  
"No," she said, leaning against him for support, her head resting on his chest. "At least, I'm pretty sure it isn't."  
  
"Can you walk?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah," she replied, taking a few tentative steps, then walking with more confidence, supporting her own weight.  
  
"Listen, I don't want to spoil your fun or anything, but how about we just head in for the night, ok?" He kept his tone casual, trying not to show how worried he was.  
  
"I think I've had enough fun for one night, thanks," she said dryly.  
  
They were nearly home, walking slowly down the dusty street, before Sands realized she hadn't let go of his hand. 


	7. I'm sure I'll think of a catchy title at...

'What the hell is wrong with you?' Sands demanded of himself. 'Why the **** do you care what happens to her? She's a Barillo, a liar, a manipulator, she tried to sell you to the highest bidder, and you'll probably wind up shooting her before the week is out anyway.'  
  
'She saved my life,' he argued silently.  
  
'Yeah, see above!' snapped the first voice, laughing cynically. 'What else have you got?'  
  
'Um... she's hot?' supplied the second voice doubtfully.  
  
'What is this, the fourth grade? Besides, you don't know that,' the first pointed out. 'Thanks to her family, you have no idea at all what she looks like. I suggest you remember whose fault that is.'  
  
'Point,' the second voice conceded. 'How about this then; you're worried about her because you need her to take you to the meeting with Miguel Guerro, and you can't afford to have her die on you now.'  
  
'True,' the first voice agreed. 'So, just how badly hurt is she?'  
  
'One way to find out.'  
  
*  
  
"Are you alright?" Sands asked as she closed the door behind them and locked it.  
  
"Your continued concern for my wellbeing is very touching," she informed him sarcastically. "I'm fine."  
  
"Then why are you limping?" he asked, listening to her footsteps on the tiled floor.  
  
"Mind your own business!" she snapped. She left him and went into another room for a few minutes. He heard water running.  
  
Her step was far quieter when she returned. He listened with his head cocked slightly to one side for a moment, then said, "If you're going to go barefoot, watch where you step. I put a few holes in the floor."  
  
"I noticed," she said dryly. "May I ask why?"  
  
"I was shooting cockroaches."  
  
"Cockroaches."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And you came to rescue me because...?"  
  
"People are more fun to shoot than cockroaches."  
  
She laughed. "Tell me, Senor; is there any point or purpose to your life at all?"  
  
Sands shrugged. "I restore the balance. If a dish is too good, I shoot the cook. If a president is too secure, I start a revolution. You get the idea."  
  
"Uh huh," she said skeptically. "But that was before."  
  
"Before...?"  
  
She didn't answer. He heard the click of a key in a lock, and the scrape of a wooden drawer opening and closing.  
  
"Here, catch," she ordered, tossing something to him. He nearly dropped it, surprised by its shape and weight.  
  
He frowned, and buckled his gun belt over his hips and shoulder, checking the four pistols as he did so, half-expecting to find the bullet chambers empty, but they were still fully loaded.  
  
"These also are yours," she said, and pressed his sunglasses into his hand.  
  
"Thank you," he said solemnly. "The sunlight was really starting to bother me."  
  
She didn't laugh. Instead she asked, "What color were your eyes?"  
  
He grinned wolfishly and replied, "You know the color of old blood, how it almost turns black after a while?"  
  
"Si..."  
  
"Well."  
  
He sat down on the bed and went back to checking his guns and adjusting the straps that ran over his shoulders, so that they fit more comfortably.  
  
One of the straps was caught, and try as he might, he couldn't untangle it. Cursing, he gave it a sharp yank, which didn't improve matters- it was now cutting painfully into his shoulder.  
Wordlessly, she sat down next to him and untangled it, briskly knocking his fingers away when he tried to help her. "Yo no necesito su ayuda," she informed him. (I don't need your help.)  
  
"No?" He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair.  
  
She stiffened at his touch. "Qué haces?" she demanded.  
  
"I have something of yours," he breathed, and pressed his lips to hers. For a moment she did not respond, and he thought she would pull away, but then she slid her arms around him and kissed him back, fully and deeply.  
  
She drew back slightly and murmured playfully in his ear, "But senor, I don't remember ever giving you anything like that before."  
  
"I'm willing to overlook that for the moment," Sands said, and found her mouth again, drawing her down with him. He kissed her hard, as merciless in loving as he was in all other aspects of his life. He slid his hands under her shirt, and felt her shiver in reaction. Now, he knew, she was his.  
  
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Estrella awoke later that night, and lay perfectly still for a long time, staring into the blackness of the room, listening to Sands' breathing. His left arm, still bandaged, was around her, holding her in the warm curve of his body. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.  
  
She licked her lips, wincing as they stung and burned. She could still taste him; tobacco, tequila, and a hint of lime. His kisses had hurt, at first, but she understood that this was how it must be. His anger was too strong for it to be any other way.  
  
Estrella drifted back into darkness, feeling Sands' heart beating.  
  
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A/N: *shudders* You know, I didn't want this to happen. I had PLANS for it eventually, but not just now. But then Sands strolled into my head, and we had words about it. Well, not words exactly. Call it a frank exchange of ideas. By the way, he cheats when he fights, too. 


	8. Sands earns an Oscar

Well, here it is. Took me long enough, I know, but it's not my fault! Talk to Sands. After the last chapter, he slept for like twenty hours straight and woke up in what can only be termed a b****y mood, even for him. He sat in a dusty corner of my mind, smoking and swearing and sulking until I finally gave in and asked him what on earth was wrong, and he told me quite matter-of-factly that he hadn't shot anyone in at least 24 hours, and that he was starting to go through withdrawal. ************************************************************************  
Sands woke early the next morning, but lay for a long time without moving, listening to the sounds of people and the occasional car on the street outside, memorizing what he heard. He mentally shook his head, thinking with grim good humor how odd it was to wake up without opening one's eyes. His arm was still around Estrella, and he shifted slightly to kiss the back of her neck. She didn't move, but he heard her breathing change ever so slightly. He waited, but nothing more happened for several minutes.  
  
At last he said, "You can stop pretending to be asleep any time now."  
  
She laughed softly and turned over to face him. "How did you know?"  
  
"Magic," he answered with a straight face.  
  
She sighed and answered, "Right. I should have guessed. Tell me, Sands, have you always been insane, or is it a recent development?"  
  
He deliberately gave her his most worrisome grin as he replied, "Always have been, always will be."  
  
"You're good at it," she informed him.  
  
He smirked. "I practice every day."  
  
"Well, you-" she began, but he cut her off with a gesture.  
  
A slow smile spread across his face. "Do you hear that?"  
  
"I hear nothing," she said, sounding puzzled.  
  
"Exactly," he said simply.  
  
She let out a slow hiss of breath and got up without another word. Sands followed suit, tugging his clothes on and buckling on his gun belt. He stretched, making a few vertebrae crack in protest. "Qué quieres hacer?" she asked, her voice as controlled and calm as if she were asking about the weather.  
  
"Kill every last ****er the cartel sends after me, starting with the ones outside and working my way across the country," Sands answered grimly. His words were punctuated by the roar of several truck engines, and the screech of brakes.  
  
"Then let's go, before they get in position," she said, heading for the door.  
  
He grabbed her arm and said, "No, let them get in place. There's no way the two of us can deal with them when they're all in a group, but once they nicely spread out-"  
  
"We'll be caught in a crossfire!" Estrella spat. "Sands, this is loco. We will both be killed!"  
  
The dull thump of an explosion somewhere up the street made Sands jump and Estrella swear. "What was THAT?" she demanded.  
  
"How the **** should I know?" Sands drawled. "Why don't you go look for yourself?"  
  
He could tell she was having one of her I'm-glaring-daggers-at-you moments, and he enjoyed every moment of it. Pissing people off was something of a hobby for him. He waited for her curiosity to get the better of her, as he knew it would.  
  
At last she jerked her arm out of his hold, cursing him, his ancestors, Americans in general, and the CIA in particular. She also added a few notes on his personal habits, probable sexual preferences, and lack of intelligence. He listened appreciatively for a few moments, then said, "Yes, yes, I confess, it's all true, now will you please go see what our friends are doing out there?"  
  
Still muttering, she carefully opened the door a few inches. "Three trucks, about thirty men. None of them are wearing uniforms. They are going from house to house, searching. If no one answers the door, they blow it off. The truck that is nearest to us, about fifty feet from the door, seems to be full of explosives," she reported, closing the door again as quietly as she could.  
  
"Does it now?" Sands murmured, then he gave her another twisted grin. "OK, I've got an idea."  
  
"Does it involve both of us living to see tomorrow?" she demanded.  
  
"With any luck, yeah," said Sands unconcernedly.  
  
"So what's your buen idea?" she asked.  
  
He told her. She sighed deeply, but made no comment beyond, "Si, yo comprendo."  
  
"Good," he said brightly, listening to the scuffing of perhaps a dozen pairs of feet on the road just outside the door. He reached up and peeled the bandages away from his ruined eyes, gritting his teeth, and put on his sunglasses. "Ready? Go."  
He flung the door open and stumbled out into the street, his arms extended in front of him, occasionally tripping over his own feet for added effect. Behind him, just out of sight of any observers in the shadows of the doorway, Estrella screamed insults at him, punctuated by a few carefully-aimed shots from her gun that whistled past his head, some coming close enough to ruffle his dark hair. "You son of a *****!" she shrieked in spanish. "I'm going to ****ing kill you, you bastard!"  
  
Sands could feel blood beginning to run down his face again, so he raised a shaking hand to his cheek as he ducked her shots with carefully judged clumsiness, allowing the blood to coat his fingers. He did his best to keep a look of terror on his face, while inside he was roaring with maniacal laughter.  
  
He half-turned, still stumbling away from her, and slammed full-tilt into the side of the cartel's truck. Pain from his wounded arm nearly made him black out, but he forced himself to stay conscious, and focused. He slumped to the ground, curling into a ball with his arms curled protectively around his body, in terrible pain.  
  
At least, that was what he hoped it looked like. Under the cover of his fall, he pulled two guns from their holsters and lay panting in the dust, waiting, hiding them close to his body. Right on cue, Estrella screeched a final blistering oath, fired one last shot, and slammed the door shut with an echoing bang.  
  
Sands could hear rough laughter all around him. He mapped the ground around him by sound, locating as many of the cartel's soldiers as he could. He gave them a five count, then rolled onto his back and started shooting. He heard screams and bodies falling as his bullets found their marks.  
  
Leaping to his feet, he vaulted lightly into the bed of the truck, dropping almost prone, feeling the boxes of explosives shifting under his weight. The wound in his thigh blazed with pain; he ignored it. The adrenaline pounding in his veins made that easy.  
  
There was some half-hearted return fire, but a shouted order in spanish from one of the soldiers put a stop to that. Sands smiled and murmured, "I know, I know. Your boss wants me alive, doesn't he? You really can't risk blowing me up, now can you?"  
  
He shot the man who had shouted, just because he could, and took out three others who were nearby for good measure. He could hear the rest of them milling about in confusion, now leaderless, so he put a few more out of their misery, purely, of course, as an act of kindness.  
  
The welcome sound of a car engine and the squeal of tires reached his ears. The vehicle screeched to a halt alongside of the truck, and Sands rolled out of the bed of the truck, yanked the passenger door open, and threw himself inside just as Estrella (who was driving) floored the gas pedal. Sands twisted around to fire out the back window, hitting the boxes of explosives, which went off with a ground-shaking roar. Sands felt the frame of the car vibrate. Estrella was also shooting; she put a bullet in each of the tires of the other two trucks as they raced by, eliminating any possibility of pursuit.  
  
"You had no trouble?" he asked, shouting to make himself heard.  
  
"None," she answered smugly, swerving to avoid an obstacle of some kind. "There were only two behind the house, both near the car, and they were distracted by your little performance."  
  
Sands grinned wolfishly and said, "I should get a ****ing Oscar for that!"  
  
Estrella laughed and said, "I don't know about that, but at least it worked. We're safe, for now at least."  
  
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A/N: Well Sands, I hope you're happy, mate. 


	9. Estrella's story

Thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter- I love you all!  
  
One reviewer did bring up a pertinent point, which I would like to address: The bit about Sands' DNA. Believe me, my friend, I am more than aware of how 'fiddly' such a check can be, and that this is, well, just plain unlikely. But honestly, the entire movie was highly unlikely, from Sands being allowed to keep his badge when (pardon my bad pun) anyone with eyes could see that he was dangerously psychotic, on down the list to El's surviving being shot multiple times in the chest and torso, not to mention Marquez living through his heart-shot. So really, I guess I was just sticking to theme there. In the future, however, I'll be more careful, knowing I have you watching me ;-).  
  
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They drove for nearly half an hour, until at last Sands broke the silence by asking, "So if Barillo and his daughter are dead, who's in charge of the cartel these days?"  
  
"Why are you asking me?"  
  
Sands shrugged. "I thought you might know. After all, they're your family."  
  
"Only in the loosest sense of the word," she said bitterly. "But if I was asked to guess, I would say that my cousin Marisa would be in charge now. She was your 'Ajedrez's' younger sister."  
  
Sands hissed something vicious-sounding under his breath.  
  
She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Mari is every bit as ruthless as her older sister, perhaps more so. She always felt second- best, and it made her bitter and angry, even as a young child. You know, 'the heir and the spare'," Estrella joked.  
  
"You knew her as a child?" Sands asked, surprised. He assumed she had been 'adopted' by here uncle and the cartel as a teenager, based on what she had told him earlier- it had never occurred to him that that might not have been the case.  
  
"Of course," said Estrella casually. "My parents died when I was five years old, and my uncle cared for me after that. Well, perhaps 'cared for' is the wrong term to use," she amended. "He saw to my needs, and I lived in his house. His daughters were like my sisters from then on. What they did, I did. What they learned, I learned."  
  
"How to be a young lady," Sands supplied with a straight face. "Proper etiquette. How to dress for state functions and formal parties. Ballet lessons."  
  
He could almost see her grin; nearly as wicked as his own. "Oh, yes," she agreed, her tone matching his perfectly in seriousness. "You forgot the bit about hosting formal tea parties."  
  
"How silly of me," said Sands easily. "I expect I also forgot things like espionage, weaponry, martial arts, strategy, foreign languages, and organized crime."  
  
"The skills of a good AFN agent," she said quietly.  
  
"Or a great cartel member," Sands retorted.  
  
"Si," she whispered. "Or that."  
  
Sands could sense her guard beginning to come down. He let his training take over, enjoying the sensation of power he got from it. If this were a CIA interrogation (a specialty of his), he would know he was about to get what he wanted to know from her.  
  
"You worked with the AFN for a short time, didn't you?" he asked, keeping his tone light.  
  
"Si," she said again. "On my uncle's orders. He wanted someone inside their organization, making sure they didn't get to close to catching anyone important from the cartel."  
  
Playing a hunch, he said, "And what about Ajedrez? Did you help her get a position with them?"  
  
"I did. For a time, everything worked perfectly. But then," she paused, taking a deep, steadying breath, and went on, "Something went wrong."  
  
Sands waited.  
  
"I failed to find out about a field agent's investigation of my uncle soon enough. I was forced to go after the man myself, and when I got to my uncle's home, I found the man and five other agents there, arresting him. Him, the head of the whole cartel, like some common drug-runner."  
  
Sands whistled low. "Six AFN agents. You killed them?"  
  
"Si," she said simply.  
  
"What about Ajedrez?" he asked, frowning. "Why didn't she find out about the investigation and help you?"  
  
"By that time she was involved in another, more pressing project," Estrella said evasively.  
  
"Me," said the agent, without a moment's hesitation.  
  
"You," she agreed. "After my failure, my uncle decided I was a liability to him, so he betrayed me to my former colleagues in the AFN. I understand he made quite a lot of money out of the deal. The government was willing to pay handsomely for information leading to the capture of such a dangerous criminal."  
  
"So the AFN came after you," he murmured, thinking hard. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, but there were several that didn't seem to fit the picture he was getting.  
  
"For a time," she said casually. "But after a while they lost interest. I simply vanished for a while, 'lying low', as Americans say. My uncle was most disappointed in them, and was forced to look elsewhere for help in getting rid of me. He had neither the manpower nor the inclination to eliminate me himself, so he sought... professional help."  
  
"CIA help?" Sands hazarded.  
  
"Agent Mark Thompson, CIA."  
  
Sands burst out laughing. "That bastard? Jesus, he and I flew down here together on our first assignment! He just wouldn't shut up, ever! I hated that son of a *****!"  
  
She chuckled. "So did I. Somehow I doubt he'll be bothering either of us again, considering what I did to him."  
  
Sands favored her with a blood-thirsty smile. "Oh, do tell."  
  
She did.  
  
The smile on his face became rather forced. He swallowed, feeling slightly nauseous, fighting to control his reaction. "For seven days?" he croaked.  
  
"Until it killed him," she said lightly. "It was closer to eight, actually, now that I think back. He was in pretty good physical shape- at first, anyway."  
  
Sands said nothing. He had hated Thompson, it was true, but what Estrella had done to him made even Sands slightly queasy. Changing the subject, he asked, "Where are we going, anyway?"  
  
She made no comment on the change of topic, replying, "We're going to see a mutual friend- Jorge Ramirez." 


	10. La Policia

"You do realize he hates me?" Sands asked, with the air of one stating the painfully obvious.  
  
"Undoubtedly," said Estrella mildly.  
  
"And this doesn't worry you because..."  
  
"Senor," she drawled, "Someday you must learn to just wait and... see."  
  
Sands muttered something under his breath which could have been interpreted as rude had it been intelligible. Estrella ignored him.  
  
In a way, he almost appreciated her taking a shot at him. He didn't think he could deal with sympathy or condescension at the moment, or ever, for that matter. He heard her mutter something, and the car slowed and swerved right, off the road, coming gradually to a halt.  
  
"Why are we stopping?" he asked, suspicion darkening his tone.  
  
"Relax," she advised, and he heard her door open, but she didn't get out. "We just need gasoline."  
  
He offered a pleasant smile and an agreeable nod, saying cheerfully, "Bullshit." They had been driving for just under an hour- there was no way her car needed that much fuel.  
  
She sighed, asking rhetorically, "No hay mentir a tú, hay?" (There is no lying to you, is there?)  
  
"Nope," he agreed. "What-"  
  
"Just listen," she interrupted.  
  
He did so, tilting his head slightly to one side. Distantly, he heard the hum of engines, and tires on the unpaved road. It sounded like three or four cars, still some distance away. "The cartel?" he asked coolly.  
  
She gave an unladylike snort, and said, "What is this? Does the great Sands think he missed what he shot at?"  
  
"They could have called backup," he pointed out patiently, his tone dripping condescension. "But if you know better, feel free to enlighten me at any time."  
  
"Es la policía," she said simply.  
  
Sands swore feelingly. "That's a cute trick," he said, checking his guns in their holsters. "The cartel must have called them and, what, left an anonymous tip about where we were headed?"  
  
"Or the police are on their payroll already," Estrella added. "I do not know."  
  
"What do you want to do about them?" Sands inquired, as though the matter were personally of no particular concern to him.  
  
"What do you think?" she said sharply, and he heard the crunch of gravel as she got out of the car. He followed suit, wincing as pain shot through his wounded leg.  
  
He could feel the heat of the sun on his face, which was stiff with drying blood from the empty sockets of his eyes. He hadn't had a chance to wash the blood off his face, and he took grim pleasure in imagining what he must look like at the moment; a figure out of nightmares- a man all in black, pale as death, with 'tears' of blood trickling steadily from behind his dark sunglasses, hinting eerily at the horror they hid.  
  
Walking around the car so that it would be between him and the police when they pulled in, fighting the urge to keep one hand braced against it, he nearly ran into the gas pump. He leaned casually against the side of the car next to Estrella, who was making a show of filling the tank, from what he could hear.  
  
Out on the road, the police cars drew nearer. Sands grinned, silently chastising them for keeping him waiting. He drew two guns from their holsters and shifted slightly to stop the edge of the door from digging painfully into his spine.  
  
"Comfy?" Estrella asked sarcastically.  
  
"Oh, you bet," he said, making a production of rubbing his thigh against hers. She gave him a playful shove, saying, "First let's worry about the police, mi amor. Entendimiento?" (*)  
  
He could hear she crunch of gravel as the police cars ground to a halt not far away. He could hear car doors opening and the sound of running feet as the police scrambled to get into position.  
  
A voice with a thick Mexican accent called, "Agente de la CIA Sheldon Jeffrey Sands!"  
  
Sands smirked, sinking down behind the car, and yelled back, "Sí, estoy aquí!" (Yes, I'm here!)  
  
"Usted y su cómplice saldrán ahora con sus manos arriba!" the voice bellowed imperiously, at easily twice the strictly necessary volume. (You and your accomplice will come out now, with your hands in the air!)  
  
"What are you going to do?" Estrella murmured. She was crouched down next to him, close enough that he could hear her breathing.  
  
"You'll just have to wait and see," he whispered. "Just do what I say. Or better yet, do what they say."  
  
She started to object. "Sands, what-"  
  
"Just follow my lead," he muttered. Raising his voice, he yelled, "Sorry, amigos, no can do. I'm hurt- I don't think I can walk, but I'll send my compañera out now!" He nudged her, so she got up carefully and walked around the car, holding her hands in the air, her gun in her right hand.  
  
"Deje caer su arma!" one of the officers screamed. (Drop your weapon!) Sands waited with baited breath, and a moment later he heard the thump of Estrella's gun hitting the ground.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
'If he doesn't have a plan, I'll kill him,' Estrella vowed blackly, forcing herself to do nothing as almost all of the officers descended on her in a highly unprofessional mob, leaving only a few covering the car and Sands' hiding place, such as it was.  
  
A short, weaselish man with greasy black hair that hung limply over his small, watery eyes leered at her as he patted her down for other weapons, taking far more time than was necessary, lingering over her legs and chest for several long seconds. The temptation to break every bone in his scrawny body was almost overwhelming.  
  
At last they spun her around and slammed her face-down on the hood of the police car hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to resist too much as they yanked her arms behind her, fumbling with the handcuffs.  
  
Over their muttered conversations and barked orders to each other, she thought she heard a tiny metallic click from Sands' direction, followed by a second. 'Right,' she thought, catching on. She jerked sharply to one side, causing the man behind her to drop the handcuffs with a loud clatter.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands heard the handcuffs fall and mentally congratulated Estrella on her quick thinking. Twisting around, he leapt to his feet, braced his elbows on the roof of the car, and opened fire, aiming for the men who held Estrella. Screams rent the air, and the distinctive thump of bullets striking flesh was soon followed by the thud of falling bodies.  
  
Sands smiled, and kept firing.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella stayed perfectly still as Sands took out the men holding her down. As soon as the last one was dead, she dropped to the ground and crawled to where her gun lay in the dirt. Lying prone, feeling small stones dig into her stomach and thighs, she added her bullets to the hail of death raining down on the police.  
  
She heard footsteps behind her and twisted around to glance over her left shoulder. Sands was coming around the side of the car, still firing, changing his position to bring the last few officers into his line of fire.  
  
Soon, only one was left.  
  
The last police officer leapt into his squad car and revved the engine, spinning his tires before roaring off in a broad semicircle, firing out the window at Sands, who ducked his first two shots with casual ease. The agent was incredibly fast.  
  
But not fast enough.  
  
The third bullet tore a long, shallow furrow in Sands' already wounded upper arm, ripping the black fabric of his sleeve. Blood sprayed. The shot knocked Sands sideways onto his knees. He bowed his head, grimacing with pain. Estrella sprang onto her feet in a single fluid motion and sprinted toward him.  
  
The officer in the car twisted the steering wheel sharply and poured on speed, racing for the figure kneeling in the dust.  
  
A second before impact, Sands' head came up, and it seemed to Estrella that he could see her, just for a moment. He struggled to rise, managing to get up onto his feet, clutching his wounded arm.  
  
Then the car slammed into him. The sickening sound of impact rang loud in Estrella's ears. Sands' body was flung high into the air, and he struck the earth with a dull thud and lay still, on his back, his hair making a dark halo around his head. His sunglasses had come off, and she could see the empty sockets of his eyes, filled with the red of his blood. His gun lay near one motionless gloved hand.  
  
She spun on her heel, screaming as she poured fire into the squad car, until at last the back window shattered and one of her bullets found the driver's skull. The car rolled on, finally slamming into a boulder on the side of the road and bursting into flame.  
  
Estrella bowed her head, fighting the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, her gun held loosely at her side in shaking fingers. She raised her head to look at Sands, lying in the dust, unmoving.  
  
Slowly she walked over to him and knelt at his side, tears now pouring openly down her face. She took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs. His fingers were cold.  
  
She reached out and brushed a few strands of dark hair away from his face.  
  
Slowly, so slowly that she wasn't sure of it at first, his fingers tightened on her hand. Then he coughed, and she distinctly saw his lips form a single word.  
  
"Shit."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
(*) The term "Entendimiento?" translates literally as "understanding?", but could also be interpreted as "savvy?" 


	11. Ramirez's House, Part One

He tried to sit up, nearly crushing her fingers in his hand, but he fell backwards again, his jaw clenched against the pain. He held perfectly still for a long moment, his breathing fast and shallow.  
  
At last he said hoarsely, "Help me up."  
  
"What?" Estrella cried. "Surely all your bones are broken!"  
  
Forcing a smile, he shook his head slightly, then winced and stopped. "I was trained to avoid taking too much damage from something like that."  
  
"Too much damage! What, is there a secret CIA trick to getting hit by a car?"  
  
"Something like that," Sands agreed, holstering his gun, bracing his free hand against the ground, and pushing himself up into an unsteady sitting position. "The trick is to relax at impact- you just let the car throw you, deadweight."  
  
"And that is all there is to it, I suppose," she said, sarcasm just barely concealing the quiver in her voice.  
  
"Listen," he said, turning his face towards her and smiling tightly, "Your concern is really very touching, but right now, all I want to do is to get the **** out of here. Comprendes?"  
  
"Yo comprendo," she said coldly.  
  
"Good," he said absently, feeling around on the ground and hating every moment of it. "Where the **** are my sunglasses?"  
  
Wordlessly she handed them to him, and he put them on.  
  
She got him up onto his feet by main force, and he leaned heavily on her arm for a few moments, shaking his head to try and clear it. Later, he knew, he'd have one hell of a headache.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Once in the car he shook off her helping hand and settled himself comfortably in the seat. He reached up behind his right shoulder, drawing the seatbelt down, and fastened it with a snap.  
A moment passed in silence, and then Sands snarled a half- intelligible curse and unfastened it again, rubbing a hand across his chest where the belt had touched him.  
  
Next to him, he could feel Estrella's curious glance. "What?" he demanded crossly.  
  
"Does it hurt you?" she asked, sounding concerned.  
  
Sands scowled. "No, it doesn't," he said shortly.  
  
"Then what?" she persisted, and he heard her turn to face him.  
  
"That's none of your damn business, is it?" he asked in a falsely cheery voice.  
  
Taking the hint, she turned back around, started the engine, and pulled out of the station, silent once more, but Sands could still feel her question hanging in the air between them, like some invisible thundercloud. 'Hell,' he thought grimly, 'Maybe it is visible? How the **** should I know?'  
  
'So go ahead, answer her,' said the small voice in his mind. 'See what she makes of it. Go on, it'll be fun.'  
  
'Right,' he thought cynically, 'Fun.'  
  
"If you must know," he said at last, careful to keep his tone matter- of-fact, "It reminds me rather vividly of being strapped to that table."  
  
She was quiet for a long time, and Sands waited in genuine curiosity to hear what she would say, or indeed if she would say anything at all.  
  
At last she said simply, "I'm sorry."  
  
"For what?" Sands inquired contemptuously. "For asking about it? For your family cutting my eyes out and leaving me to die?" He half-hoped she would lash out at him, just so he could vent some of his pain and frustration on her, but she did not.  
  
She didn't even answer.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands spent the remainder of the trip pretending to be asleep. He tilted his seat back and interlaced his fingers behind his head, resting as comfortably as he could.  
  
His adrenaline had long since worn off, and he was starting to feel the effects of his earlier battle with the police. Namely, he hurt. A lot. He was bruised from neck to knees, the palms of his hands were scraped and raw from breaking his fall, and his arm was throbbing with pain from his newly-acquired bullet wound.  
  
He was, however, vaguely grateful that Estrella wouldn't have to dig another bullet out of his flesh, as the shot had only grazed him.  
  
His thoughts turned to their destination, and to Jorge Ramirez. The man was presumably back in retirement, and living somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Why Estrella thought Ramirez would be willing to help him was beyond him, but he supposed he would find out.  
  
He was distantly aware that his not knowing should be bothering him a lot more than it was. For all he knew, she could be leading him into some kind of elaborate trap- selling him out to the cartel, perhaps. But no, it didn't fit. She could have just let them take him at the house in town, or let the police catch up with them, but she hadn't done either.  
  
'We've been over this before,' he pointed out to himself. 'The best price she's going to get for you is from the Guerro meeting, not from the Barillos or el presidente's police. So it stands to reason that you could trust her to a certain extent for the time being- it's in her own best interest to keep you safe.'  
  
'The key thought here being "to a certain extent"' he admonished silently.  
  
'Of course.'  
  
Growing bored with his own company, he dropped his sleeping act and sat up, asking brightly, "So, are we there yet?"  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Ramirez's driveway was long, twisting, and unpaved. The car bounced along the uneven road, causing Sands' head to smack against the window, making him swear and worsening his headache considerably.  
  
At last the car ground to a halt, and he heard the creak of Estrella's door opening, and the sound of her feet on the gravel outside. He cautiously opened his own door, surreptitiously checking his guns as he did so, loosening two of them in their holsters at his hips. Then he stood up and closed his door as quietly as he could in one fluid movement.  
  
He followed the sound of Estrella's footsteps as she walked up to the house, stopping when she did, presumably at the front door. He stood just behind her and slightly to her right.  
  
She knocked loudly on the door, and a moment later Jorge Ramirez answered it.  
  
Ramirez yanked the door open, and stopped short, saying, "Estrella Barillo! What are you doing here?"  
  
"I was hoping we could sleep over, Jorge," said Estrella pleasantly.  
  
"You had trouble in town?" he inquired, his tone still light, but with an edge to it.  
  
"Si, un poco," Estrella answered. "Cartel y la policia."  
  
"A bit more popular than usual, aren't you?" Ramirez observed.  
  
"Oh, it isn't me," Estrella said in false modesty. "No, I'm afraid credit must go to my friend, here." She put a hand on Sands' shoulder, making him flinch as bruises under her palm made their complaints felt. He fought the urge to snap a few fingers.  
  
"Sands?" Ramirez asked hoarsely after a nasty silence. "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead."  
  
Sands grinned, knowing the effect, with the blood on his face, must be horrific, and he enjoyed every moment of it. "Come on, Jorge," he said in false good humor. "You saw me after the coup. I was still standing then, why shouldn't I be still standing now?"  
  
"You were dying on that street," said Ramirez quietly. "And you knew it."  
  
"Well, that's very perceptive of you," Sands sneered. "What clued you in, all the blood?"  
  
Ramirez didn't answer him, but shifted his attention back to Estrella, saying, "You may stay here tonight, Estrella Barillo, but only because of the debt I owe you. After this, my debt will be paid in full. Do you understand?"  
  
"I understand," Estrella replied gravely.  
  
They followed Ramirez into the house, Sands staying close behind Estrella so that he could follow in her path of travel, eliminating the need to feel for obstacles in his way. Eliminating the need for him to acknowledge his blindness in front of Ramirez.  
  
"What does Ramirez owe you for?" Sands murmured to Estrella as they walked.  
  
"I saved his life, once," Estrella answered. "Long ago."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Author's Comments (an exact quote, to be specific):  
  
"Okay, that's great. Not a damn thing happened in four pages. Spiffy."  
  
Sands: Not my fault.  
  
"Yeah, right. It's ALWAYS your fault."  
  
Sands: So how about the next chapter. It's the big dance number, isn't it?  
  
"Heck no! But it's... interesting."  
  
Sands: And unedited.  
  
"I'm working on it, I'm working on it."  
  
Sands: So long as I don't get hurt in it, I'm happy.  
  
"..."  
  
Sands: %^$(*&%(*% 


	12. Ramirez's House Part Two

Yes, people, I did my homework on my little CIA trick. It really does work. Please don't ask me how I found that out. *evil grin* ************************************************************************  
  
Sands was developing something of a sixth sense for navigating without the use of his eyes. He could tell, for example, that the room they had just entered was of a decent size, not particularly large, and that it likely contained a fair amount of furniture. His boots scraped ever so slightly on the carpeted floor, making a soft scuffing noise at each step as he followed Estrella.  
  
After no more than three steps into this new room, however, she froze in her tracks, causing him to run into her from behind and nearly fall. He cursed under his breath and recovered his balance, focusing all his remaining senses to see if he could find out what had startled her.  
  
Ramirez, evidently unconcerned, had kept walking, and Sands heard the creak of a chair as the man sat down. He picked out the slight rasp of the former FBI agent's breathing, and Estrella's, and pushed them to the back of his mind, listening for anything that didn't fit the pattern they made.  
  
Before long, he had his answer.  
  
There was someone else in the room.  
  
Stepping carefully to Estrella's right so that Ramirez could see him more clearly, he said cheerfully, "Why Ramirez, you didn't mention you had another guest!"  
  
"Did he not?" said a slightly hoarse deep voice, from somewhere in front of Sands and to his left.  
  
"El."  
  
"Sands."  
  
"What the **** are you doing here?" Sands demanded. Estrella had started moving again, towards the mariachi, but Sands stayed where he was, arms casually at his sides- near the guns at his hips.  
  
"I thought that Estrella might come here, if there was trouble in town," El said quietly.  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"He has been here two days," Ramirez offered. "He said he thought she might need my help, so he waited for her here."  
  
"I... see," said Sands pleasantly, sarcasm playing counterpoint to his light and amiable tone. "So, El, is that the only reason why you're here?"  
  
El said nothing, and after a moment Sands gave him a condescending smile.  
  
"Come on, El," Sands cajoled. "You're here because you somehow found out about the Guerro meeting, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes," said El quietly.  
  
"Why would you care about something like that?" Sands asked softly, dangerously.  
  
"The cartels are out for your blood," the mariachi said. "I want to know why they suddenly want to talk to you instead of just shooting you."  
  
"Perhaps they've heard about my stunning good looks and want to meet me in person just for that," Sands suggested dryly, waving a hand in front of his ruined eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses.  
  
"What is your plan for approaching them? Where are you to meet?" El asked, ignoring Sands' joke.  
  
"Cancun," Estrella spoke up for the first time.  
  
Even Sands was surprised. "What's in Cancun but stupid American tourists?"  
  
"American money," said Estrella darkly.  
  
"Yeah, well, there's American money in Puerto Vallarta too, and that's a lot closer than Cancun," Sands pointed out. "Why couldn't they meet us there?"  
  
"I don't know," said Estrella, sounding irritated. "Why don't you ask them that when we get there? I'm sure they'll be happy to explain it to you."  
  
"We? You mean you and me."  
  
"Me also," El said firmly. "It is too dangerous for Estrella to take you to this meeting alone."  
  
"And what the **** is that supposed to mean?" Sands snarled, taking a threatening step towards the mariachi. He heard Estrella move pointedly out of the way, and Ramirez got up out of his chair.  
  
"Estrella?" said Ramirez, a little too casually. "Could you come with me for a few minutes?"  
  
************************************************************************  
  
"Coward," Sands muttered as Estrella and Ramirez beat a hasty retreat to another part of the house, though whether he was talking about her or Ramirez remained unspecified.  
  
Turning his attention back to the mariachi, he said in a mock-patient voice, "Estrella doesn't need to be baby-sat by you, El. She knows these cartel types extremely well, and she can more than look after herself."  
  
"Perhaps I did not like the idea of leaving her alone with you," the mariachi said, but there was no 'perhaps' in his tone.  
  
Sands favored him with a lopsided grin. "It's a little late for that."  
  
"What do you mean?" El demanded sharply.  
  
Sands' smile widened. He had forgotten just how much he enjoyed messing with the mariachi. He knew it was probably a stupid, bordering-on- suicidal thing to do, but hey, why stop when you're having fun?  
  
"El, my friend," said Sands, now positively smirking. "I think you know very well what I mean."  
  
"You..." El trailed off.  
  
"Oh, yes."  
  
The mariachi was silent for a very long time.  
  
"What's this?" said Sands in a soft, malicious voice. "Does the famous El Mariachi have feelings for Estrella Barillo? How... cute."  
  
Still El said nothing, so Sands continued.  
  
"So much for that part of your legend..." he murmured as if to himself, but loud enough for El to catch every word.  
  
"What are you talking about?" El growled, but Sands could hear the defensiveness in his voice.  
  
"When they tell your story," Sands explained patiently. "They always talk about your deeply touching faithfulness to your dead wife. Amazing, isn't it, how quickly stories go from truth to tale to outright... lie?"  
  
Sands heard the creak of springs as El sprang up from the couch, and he stepped back quickly- but not quickly enough. The mariachi's punch caught him full in the face and knocked him off his feet.  
  
He hit the carpeted floor with a loud thud, swearing as agony lanced through his body as the injuries from his earlier fight with the police made themselves felt.  
  
He waited for El to follow up with a second strike, but none came.  
  
A moment later, he heard the man's footsteps, walking away.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Ramirez led Estrella to the kitchen. They sat at the table, across from one another. He listened for a moment, but there was nothing to be heard of El and Sands' confrontation.  
  
At last Ramirez broke the silence by asking, "Why did you save him?"  
  
"What, Sands?" said Estrella lightly. "I think you know the answer to that." She rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal sign for money.  
  
"There is more to it than money," the former FBI agent insisted, frowning at her.  
  
Estrella sighed. "Look," she said at last, "I appreciate your taking us in like this on such short notice and such, but to be perfectly honest, my reasons for doing this are really none of your damn business."  
  
Now it was his turn to sigh. "I suppose not," he said resignedly. Changing the subject, he asked, "You are, ah..." He trailed off uncertainly.  
  
Estrella grinned at him. "Spit it out, Jorge."  
  
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I have only two guest rooms, and somehow I don't think Sands would be too keen to share a room with El, and I was wondering if it would be, ah, acceptable for the two of you to share a room."  
  
"We'll manage," she said neutrally. "We-"  
  
She was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a punch, and a body hitting the floor. Ramirez started to rise, pulling a gun from under his jacket, but Estrella placed a restraining hand on his arm.  
  
A moment later, El stalked through the kitchen, heading for the front door.  
  
"What happened?" Ramirez called after him. "Where are you going at such an hour?"  
  
"Out," said El shortly, and was gone.  
  
Ramirez let go of his gun and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his face and sighing. "I'm getting too old for this," he complained.  
  
"Yeah, right," Estrella said wickedly. "More like you don't want to deal with Sands in a temper."  
  
Ramirez gazed balefully at her through his interlaced fingers, but acknowledged, "Perhaps it would be best if you did. I'm going to bed; between El and Sands I've had more than enough excitement for one day."  
  
"Goodnight, Jorge," said Estrella, getting to her feet. "I'll go see what I can do for Sands, shall I?"  
  
As she was walking away, Ramirez called quietly after her, "Good luck; you may need it."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
A/N: This is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to cut it here, and start up again in the next chapter, which should be up very soon.  
  
Sands: Remind me why I keep getting hurt?  
  
Intuitive: You keep asking for it.  
  
Sands: I do not!  
  
Intuitive: No?  
  
Sands: Well... maybe a little... *insane grin* 


	13. Ramirez's House, Part Three

Sorry it took so frickin' long, but, well, things have been... complicated lately. But anyhow... here it is- part three.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands was sitting on the couch when Estrella reached the living room. His whole body was hunched over, and his face was in his hands.  
  
At the sound of her footsteps he straightened up slightly and raised his head, but he did not acknowledge her at first.  
  
At last she asked, "Are you alright?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
A pause, then, "No you're not."  
  
"I'm fine!"  
  
Estrella took a deep, steadying breath, and said calmly, "Ramirez has turned in for the night. If you like, I can help you clean up a bit, and have a look at today's batch of injuries."  
  
He nodded and got slowly to his feet, following her down the dimly lit hallway to their room.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands sat on the edge of the bed as Estrella cleaned and bandaged the shallow bullet graze on his arm.  
  
She had expected him to object when she offered to treat his injuries, expected him to insist that he could do it himself. But he did not, and stayed silent as she soaked the cloth she was using in a basin of water, ready to wash the blood off his face and re-bandage his eyes.  
  
She reached out and carefully took off his sunglasses, revealing the two gaping, still sluggishly bleeding holes that had once been his eyes. He flinched as she touched the cloth to his face, but made no sound.  
  
The water in the basin was scarlet by the time she finished.  
  
Turning away from him to tear a strip of bandage off the roll she had found in a cabinet in the bathroom, she broke the silence by asking, "What did you and El fight about?"  
  
"What, couldn't you hear us?" Sands raised his eyebrows.  
  
Estrella turned back to look at him, started to shrug, caught herself, and said, "No, I was talking to Ramirez."  
  
"What did he want?"  
  
He asked me about you, actually," she answered, watching his expression out of the corner of her eye as she bent down to wrap the bandage carefully around his head, hiding what was left of his eyes once more. "He wanted to know why I saved your life."  
  
"Seems to be a popular question lately," Sands observed solemnly, but the faintest of sardonic smiles touched his lips. "One would almost think the ones asking it wish you hadn't."  
  
Estrella laughed and argued, "The cartels at least would have been most disappointed if you had died, except maybe the Barillos. Most disappointed."  
  
"Somehow I don't think El would have been too broken-hearted if I had died after the coup," Sands mused, his smile becoming more pronounced. He rubbed a hand across the ugly bruise that was spreading over his cheekbone. "Though I'm sure I don't know what gave me that impression."  
  
Estrella sighed. "You insulted Carolina again, didn't you." It was not a question.  
  
"Her name might have come up once or twice," he acknowledged. "But mostly, we just had a nice, friendly chat about you. Buddy to buddy, you know?"  
  
Estrella kept her tone carefully neutral. "Oh?"  
  
"Yeah." Sands grinned maliciously. "Turns out he's a wee bit touchy about his relationship with you."  
  
"And you are not?" she asked curiously. "It doesn't bother you that he and I were once... together?"  
  
"Nope," he said easily.  
  
"Por que no?"  
  
"Because," he said unconcernedly, "In, oh, four days, you'll take me to the Guerros, they'll talk to me or whatever, you'll get your money, and then- adios amigo. No messy long-term relationship, no commitment, no problemo."  
  
Estrella frowned. "Doesn't that worry you?"  
  
"Doesn't what worry me?" He toyed idly with a leftover scrap of bandage, deftly winding and unwinding it around his fingers.  
  
"The 'or whatever'."  
  
He smiled, still playing with the bandage. "Not really. I mean, c'mon, what's the worst they can do to me? Kill me?"  
  
"Yes," she said softly. "They could kill you."  
  
His smile turned bitter. "I'm already dead. I just haven't gotten around to lying down yet."  
  
"You're still standing?"  
  
"Still," he said quietly. "For now, at least."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
A/N: Call the Guinness Book offices; it's a new record- Sands didn't get any new injuries in this chapter! He needed a break, poor baby. So abused... *sniff*  
  
Anyway...  
  
He and some of my other 'voices' had a funny moment that I thought I'd share with you all. (If you wanna hear it, read on, otherwise... go write me a nice long review)  
  
You see, he got in a fight with somebody or other and came staggering back into my mind covered with blood, mostly not his own.  
  
So one of my female voices, Elly, nicely offers him a change of clothes, as he's such a mess. He accepts the offer.  
  
So she picks out a T-shirt and jeans and whatever for him, and a few minutes later he joins the rest of the voices for a nice cozy chat about destroying the universe. He can't imagine why everyone keeps breaking out into laughter when they look at him.  
  
The problem was, the T-shirt Elly loaned him was one of hers, and read "Girl scout Dropout" in big sparkly pink letters on the front.  
  
I believe she's still hiding from him. 


	14. Diego

The next morning Estrella, Sands, and El left Ramirez's house before dawn. Estrella drove, and El sat silently in the passenger's seat, his arms folded across his chest.  
  
Sands rode in the back, voicing an occasional bitter complaint about the earliness of the hour, the company, the car, etc. He had been woken repeatedly during the night by pain from the injuries he sustained from the fight with the police, and in the morning his body had been a patchwork quilt of spreading black and blue bruises, which did nothing to improve his mood.  
  
El and Estrella seemed to have reached an unspoken consensus, and ignored him completely.  
  
****  
  
Two days and one minor scuffle between El and Sands later, they arrived in Cancun.  
  
The Cancun area is a place of incredible contrast, where one may find, within a five mile radius, an exclusive resort community for rich foreigners, a handful of local churches, an expensive chain of luxury hotels, and perhaps a score of local families, living in such poverty and squalor that day to day survival for them is no longer a given, but a gift.  
  
The irony of it all wasn't lost on Sands. It was a fitting place to meet a cartel lord.  
  
*****  
  
They checked into a cheap roadside motel on the outskirts of the city, one that had clearly seen better days at some point in the very distant past. The door to their room, which sported a rusty number three and peeling green paint, had been kicked in so many times that the lock no longer worked at all, and the doorknob rattled dangerously as it was turned, threatening to fall off completely.  
  
The inside was, if anything, worse. There were two narrow beds, a beat up lamp on a cheap, wobbly nightstand, and a tiny bathroom, which came complete with cockroaches, no doubt compliments of the cleaning staff.  
  
Estrella made that particular discovery.  
  
Sands grinned when she told him, and mimed shooting.  
  
El made no comment on their accommodations, merely getting his guitar case out of the trunk of the car and dropping it onto the bed nearer to the door.  
  
Sands threw himself down on the other bed, stretched his legs out on the grimy blankets, and folded his arms behind his head.  
  
"Comfy?" Estrella asked dryly.  
  
"Oh yeah," said Sands, matching her tone perfectly. "Definitely. I must say, I've stayed in a lot of real dives in this shithole country, but I think this one takes the prize for worst yet." He ran a hand over the blankets and rubbed his fingers together, looking speculative. "I wonder if the front desk, or should I say, front card table, offers a complimentary de-lousing service?"  
  
"I doubt it," Estrella retorted. "It would ruin the ambiance, don't you think?"  
  
"Right," said Sands vaguely. "Anyway, we see the Guerros tomorrow?"  
  
"Si."  
  
"Where? In the city?"  
  
El, sitting on his bed sharpening a knife, spoke up for the first time. "They will meet us on their territory. A resort, no?"  
  
"El Sol de Oro," Estrella supplied. "The cartel's biggest US customers meet with them there, so they must figure their security is good enough to deal with two scruffy Mexicans and an even scruffier American, should we choose to try anything."  
  
"Why the **** would we try anything?" Sands drawled. "We've been good little boys and girls, coming when they called to meet them on their terms on their turf. Why shouldn't they trust us?"  
  
"Legends play by their own rules," Estrella said softly. "You, doubly so. They will take no chances"  
  
Sands grinned and spread his hands in a what-can-I-say gesture.  
  
"But that is tomorrow," she continued. "Tonight, I think we'll visit an old friend of mine in the city. Who knows, we may even hear something interesting while we're there."  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
It was dusk by the time they reached the true heart of the city, and another twenty minutes before they pulled up outside a dilapidated building sporting a flickering sign that read "La Rosa Blanca".  
  
The door, painted black with chipping paint, was open to the warm Mexican night, and the sounds of a party in full swing drifted out; loud music and people talking, laughing, cheering, screaming. Garish light flooded out the open door, creating bright rectangles of color on the street outside.  
  
Sands, of course, could see none of this. Instead, he listened closely, and noted that the vast majority of the voices he could hear were male, and judging by some of the things they were saying...  
  
"Your friend is a stripper?" he asked Estrella in amused disbelief. "Why Estrella, I had no idea you went in for that sort of thing."  
  
"Very funny," she drawled. "No, my friend owns this place. He'll be upstairs- follow me."  
  
Sands stayed fairly close behind her as she led them up three cracked concrete steps and through the door. He could hear El walking just behind him. The mariachi hadn't seemed at all surprised by their destination, and Sands wondered about that. What did El know about this 'friend'?  
  
The place was packed with people, mostly tourists with a scattering of locals (those with money), most of whom were involved in the tourist trade in one way or another. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of alcohol, and the unique heat of a lot of people packed into a relatively small space.  
  
"This friend of yours," he half-shouted to Estrella over the pounding music that threatened to make him deaf as well as blind, "How do you know him?"  
  
"I used to work here," Estrella called back.  
  
That brought him up short. "What?"  
  
"Yeah," she continued, still pushing her way through the crowd. "You remember I mentioned lying low for a while after the fiasco with my uncle?"  
  
If he'd had eyes, Sands would have been staring in shock. "You were a-"  
  
"Singer," she cut in, smoothly and firmly. "And only that. Oh, and I helped clean up after hours."  
  
"Oh," he said, regaining some of his composure. "Why here?"  
  
"I knew I could trust Diego- my friend," she explained, stopping just short of the far wall. Sands almost ran into her before he too halted, automatically turning partially around so as not to present his back to the room. "And let's face it, who would look for me here?"  
  
Sands nodded, surreptitiously touching the wall behind him. His fingers encountered grimy plaster, and a wooden doorframe. He made a sweeping, ascending gesture. "Shall we?"  
  
"El and I, yes," she replied. "You, no."  
  
"Why?" he demanded sharply. "Why not?"  
  
"If things go sour, I'd rather you were down here, watching the entrance- and the exit," she confessed, and paused. He could almost see her wicked grin. "Well, figuratively speaking."  
  
"You're expecting trouble? I thought this guy was your friend."  
  
"He is," she said dismissively. "But, ah, I had to leave without saying goodbye, last time. The cartel were getting close to finding me here, and it was... time to leave."  
  
"Right," Sands said softly, hearing the creak of hinges as the door opened and closed.  
  
"Right."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella marched up the creaky wooden stairs with a lot more confidence than she was actually feeling, conscious of El trailing behind her. She had told Sands the truth when she said why she left... mostly.  
  
The cartel had indeed been close to finding her. As in, just downstairs close. Most of the 'girls' who had worked with her had found out, sooner or later, who she was, and she strongly suspected that, friendship or no, one of them had sold her out. She had had to go out the window in the middle of the night to escape CIA Agent Thompson, who had continued following her until at last she dealt with him in a slightly more permanent fashion.  
  
Reaching the top of the stairs, she knocked at another closed door, this one painted green.  
  
A gruff voice answered in thickly accented English, "If you are looking for a job, I have no place open right now, so go away!"  
  
"Ah, but what if I'm not looking for a job, but for an employer?" Estrella replied impudently.  
  
The door creaked open, and a short, round, balding man in his mid- fifties pulled her into a tight embrace. She could smell cigarette smoke on the man's clothes.  
  
"Hola Diego," she said conversationally, freeing herself and stepping back to survey him with a smile.  
  
"Estrella!" he wheezed, returning her smile, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than ever. "It is so good to see you!"  
  
"You too, Diego," Estrella replied sincerely.  
  
"What brings you back here to Cancun?" he asked, then raised a pudgy hand when she started to speak. "No, don't tell me, for this I know. You seek the Guerros, no?"  
  
Estrella shook her head in wonder. "Si, but how did you know?" The slightest hint of an edge crept into her voice.  
  
"Well," he said cheerfully, "It couldn't be just to see me, considering I didn't even merit a 'goodbye' last time!"  
  
"I'm sorry about that," she said composedly, her tone cooling a degree or two. "It wasn't my fault, as I suspect you well know."  
  
"Of course not, of course not," he said genially, still smiling disarmingly at her. "I trust you dealt with Thompson?"  
  
"Sure," she drawled. "I decided to have a little chat with him, in the end."  
  
Diego's grin became rather predatory. "Matarlo?"  
  
Estrella smirked. "Oh yeah, very matarlo."  
  
Diego nodded, and shifted his attention to El for a moment. "And who is your friend?"  
  
Thinking fast, Estrella slid her hand into El's possessively. He was so surprised that he didn't react for a moment, so she stood on his foot. His fingers closed around hers. "This is Tomas," she said quickly, smiling fondly at him.  
  
Diego stared for a moment, then gave her a knowing wink, and said, "You see? I told you it would happen one day. Well, come in, both of you! Sit down; tell me what has been happening!"  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Sands sat in a corner at a small, round table, his back against the wall, his chair rocked back on two legs. A tequila and lime sat untouched before him, making a new ring on the battered tabletop.  
  
He'd already turned down two offers of companionship, and rather strongly suspected that a third was coming.  
  
Sure enough, he heard the scrape of the chair across from him being pulled out, and the creak of someone sitting down on it.  
  
"And what do you want?" he asked without preamble, his voice a bored drawl.  
  
"Just to talk, for now," a woman's voice answered. Though accented, her speech was perfectly understandable, and her tone was almost musical.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's unusual for someone to come to this place alone," the woman told him. "Don't you have any friends?"  
  
Sands favored her with a bitter laugh. "Not at the moment."  
  
"Por que?" she asked, sounding mildly curious.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Diego's "office" was little more than few chairs and a very abused- looking desk, with a few papers and no few empty glasses scattered across its surface. He sat behind the desk, with El and Estrella across from him. There was also a large stack of money, weighted down by yet another glass, this one only half-empty.  
  
"Good night, Diego?" Estrella drawled, indicating the cash with a sweep of one hand.  
  
"Very," he answered with a smile. "Tourist season, you know?"  
  
She laughed. "It's always tourist season in Cancun, Diego."  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"Anyway," she continued, leaning forward slightly, "How did you know we were here to see the Guerros?"  
  
He smiled enigmatically. "What else could bring you back here?"  
  
Estrella grinned lopsidedly at him. "Point. What else do you know?"  
  
He spread his hands. "I've heard they're offering a lot of money for some American they want- a CIA agent, I've heard, but I don't know his name. They must have asked you to find him, and if you are here, that must mean that you have, am I right?"  
  
Estrella inclined her head in the affirmative. "I have a fair idea of where he is at the moment, yeah."  
  
Diego smiled. "That's my girl. Knowing you, you will want to bring this Sands in yourself, no?"  
  
************************************************************************  
  
"Porque," Sands said dryly, "Most people find me, ah, hard to get along with."  
  
The woman laughed softly and slid her chair around so that she was closer to him. She brushed playfully against him a little, and said, "Oh, I don't think you're that bad, myself."  
  
Sands smiled. "No?"  
  
"No," she echoed, easing even closer. "Not at all. In fact," her tone became a little more commanding, "I think you can come with me now."  
  
The cold barrel of a gun was suddenly digging into his ribs. The woman leaned over him, running the fingers of her free hand over his face, tracing her fingertips under the edge of his sunglasses, just brushing the edge of his empty eye sockets. He flinched.  
  
"Yes," she whispered. "You're the one I've been looking for."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella froze. "I thought you said you didn't know his name."  
  
Diego smiled again. "Did I? Well, it hardly matters now." He brought his right hand above the edge of the desk. He held a gun, trained on her heart.  
  
"Diego, what-" she began, but he cut her off.  
  
"Just stay here for a little while, Estrella," he said, his voice quite flat now. "They have your friend downstairs now, and soon they will come for you."  
  
Estrella's mouth was suddenly very dry. "They?"  
  
Diego glanced significantly at the money still on his desk. "The Barillos, of course. They paid me well to delay you here. They knew about the Guerro meeting, of course; it is their business to know. They also knew that if you were in Cancun, you would probably come back to see me, so..." He shrugged, and gave a little what-can-I-say smile.  
  
A moment passed in stunned silence, then Diego added softly, mockingly, "Remarkable. I expect you tire of hearing it, but you do look remarkably like your cousin- Marisa." 


	15. Fallen Angel

The woman kept Sands in front of her as they walked across the room and out the door into the night, the muzzle of her gun pressed into the small of his back. She forced him to push blindly through the crowd, shouldering people aside, earning him a deluge of angry curses that he barely heard.  
  
He tripped and nearly fell walking down the cracked concrete front steps, making the woman curse him and dig the gun even harder into his back. A few choice words did come to mind, as well as the desire to yank out one of his own guns and blow her away, but he knew he would be dead long before he could reach them and bring one to bear on her if he tried anything.  
  
He kept his expression carefully neutral, letting none of his frustration show. Inwardly, he berated himself.  
  
'What the **** is wrong with you? You're Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the CIA for Christ's sake! How the hell did you let yourself get caught like that? She waltzed right up to you with a gun, pretty as you please, and you didn't even notice!'  
  
'I. Can't. See. Fuckmook. Oh God... I can't see...'  
  
'Get a ****ing grip. You can freak out later.'  
  
Sands swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He couldn't help thinking, over and over, that if he still had his eyes, this wouldn't be happening. He would have had some warning, could have- he permitted himself a bitter smile -seen it coming.  
  
The woman forced him to take a sharp left. The ground under his feet changed abruptly from dirt to uneven cobblestones, and he tripped again. The woman, not expecting this, shoved the gun even harder into his back out of purest reflex, sending him sprawling face-down.  
  
Never one to waste an opportunity, he rolled onto his back, pulled out two guns with blurring speed, and started shooting. He kept firing until both guns gave a hollow click- out of ammunition. He lay perfectly still, his heart pounding, listening with all his might. He heard nothing but the sound of distant traffic.  
  
He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and started to get to his feet. Something coldly metallic brushed against his temple.  
  
"That was stupid," the woman's voice drawled, close to his ear. "But from you, hardly surprising. Just drop those, and any others you might be carrying. Nice and slow."  
  
"Well," Sands said insolently. "If that's how you like it."  
  
He dropped the empty guns, carefully drew the still-loaded weapons that had been holstered at his sides, and dropped them as well. He heard her kick them, sending them skittering away across the cobblestones.  
  
"You know," he said conversationally, "I don't believe I heard you move before. Is that a trick they teach all Mexican women?"  
  
The woman laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, no, Agent Sands. That's a family trait."  
  
"Oh," Sands said, his tone casual and relaxed. "You must be Marisa. Estrella talks about you a lot."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella sat perfectly still, watching Diego closely. He was still smiling benignly at her, but there was a new edge of smugness to his expression as well. He asked mockingly, "Giving up so easily?"  
  
Estrella leaned back in her chair, resting her feet casually against the base of his desk. "Shouldn't I?"  
  
Diego shrugged. "I have no objections, I'm just-" A volley of gunfire rang out, cutting him off.  
  
El stiffened slightly next to her. She mentally recited an impressive string of curses, and whispered, "Sands..."  
  
Diego grinned. "So much, I think, for your friend the American."  
  
"You know what, Diego?" she said softly, tilting her head to the side slightly and smiling pleasantly. "**** you."  
  
She lashed out with both feet, slamming the desk into his body with as much force as she could muster. Diego was smashed back into the wall with a crunch of breaking bone- what, Estrella couldn't tell.  
  
He opened fire reflexively, but she and El were both already moving; she hit the wooden floor and rolled, he drawing his own gun and firing one shot. The bullet pierced Diego's skull, ending his life in a spray of red.  
  
A moment passed in deafening silence.  
  
A few dollar bills fluttered through the air, settling like falling leaves on the wreckage of the desk and chairs, and on the body of the traitor.  
  
El holstered his gun, and Estrella sprang lightly to her feet. El surveyed the body with a mixture of amusement and irritation, saying, "He could have shot me!"  
  
Estrella grinned. "Oh, come now. The great El Mariachi, killed by one loser with a handgun?"  
  
El gave a fluid, expressive shrug. The barest hint of a smile played across his lips as he said, "Well, perhaps not."  
  
As one, they turned and walked away, never looking back.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
The gun pressed harder against Sands' temple. "Get up!" Marisa snarled.  
  
He did so, taking his time about it. She stepped back a pace, taking her out of immediate striking range. That was one of the first things he had learned with the CIA; close quarters practically negate the advantage of a gun.  
  
Pain in his partially-healed leg was a sharp counterpoint to his rising headache. Falling had done him no favors.  
  
"Start walking," she ordered, her voice harsh.  
  
Sands pretended to consider, then said softly, "No."  
  
She snarled and struck him across the face with the butt of the gun. He screamed, the empty sockets of his eyes blazing with the white fire of agony. He staggered, thinking dimly that he heard footsteps, but the next moment he was sure that he had imagined it.  
  
No one would come to save him. El and Estrella were probably already dead, or if they were not, what would it matter? He was nothing but easy money to Estrella, and meant even less to El.  
  
No one would come to save him.  
  
No one.  
  
As his thoughts faded to blackness, Sands allowed himself to hope, briefly, that he wouldn't wake again.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Estrella sprinted down the packed dirt of the road, towards the source of the gunshots. The streets of this area of Cancun were sparsely lit at best, and she was forced to watch her footing carefully. El ran easily beside her, breathing slowly and evenly.  
  
The ground changed abruptly to cobblestones, and she slowed to a jog, then a walk, glancing into the deep pools of shadow on the street ahead, watching for movement, any movement...  
  
There.  
  
Two people, one of them holding a gun.  
  
Estrella drew her own gun and advanced, using the darkness as cover and camouflage.  
  
The person with the gun- a woman, she could now see -struck the other, and he fell. Estrella snarled a curse and snapped off a shot at the woman, but she spun on her heel and fled, running down the alley away from them.  
  
"I'll follow her- get Sands!" said El shortly, and he too sprinted off into the darkness.  
  
Estrella dropped to her knees at the agent's side. His face was nearly white, and his dark hair framed it perfectly in a mockery of a halo. Under other circumstances, she might have laughed at that; if Sands was any kind of an angel, it would be a fallen one.  
  
She checked the pulse at his throat- it was strong and even. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, she lifted his head and shoulders carefully off the ground, holding him gently against her.  
  
After a moment he coughed a little and groaned under his breath.  
  
"Sands?" she asked cautiously. "Are you alright?"  
  
"I don't know," he drawled. "What do you think?"  
  
"I see you met Marisa," she said conversationally, matching his dry tone perfectly.  
  
"You have a truly charming family," he retorted, sitting up. He swayed, shaking his head a little. "Where's El?"  
  
"He went after Marisa," she said, gesturing vaguely down the alley, then rolling her eyes at her own folly.  
  
"She ran?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Why?"  
  
"I shot at her," Estrella told him.  
  
"But you didn't kill her."  
  
"No."  
  
Sands was silent for a long time. 


	16. A Schedule to Keep

El's breath was coming in short gasps, and a stitch in his side was a sharp ache over his ribs. The night air was warm, and he could feel sweat soaking through his shirt.  
  
'Dios mio,' he reflected wryly, trying to keep Marisa in sight, 'I am getting too old for this.'  
  
He mentally took inventory as he ran; he had his handgun, two spare clips of ammunition, and a throwing knife tucked into the top of his left boot. Not much to work with.  
  
Ahead of him, Marisa ran lightly, her feet making almost no sound as they came down at the end of each long stride. She never once looked back, but he had the strong impression that she knew exactly where he was. Her flight was no longer a panicked sprint; she had found her rhythm and now she was in control, leading him on a chase through the darkness.  
  
El wondered where his chase would end.  
  
She turned onto yet another darkened street, dodging between a few parked cars, and El followed, his breath burning in his lungs.  
  
All at once she stumbled and fell heavily, sprawling in the dirt. El slowed to a jog, bringing his gun to bear on her. She turned slowly over onto her back to face him, panting and disheveled.  
  
"Don't try and run again," he advised her shortly, still breathing heavily from his prolonged sprint.  
  
She shook her head mutely, her eyes wide with terror.  
  
El suppressed a snort of disgust with difficulty. This was the great Marisa, leader of the Barillo cartel?  
  
"Where were you taking Sands?" he asked, meeting her frightened eyes with his own unreadable gaze.  
  
She flinched as he took another step toward her and murmured, "He owes us. He owes me. I wanted to make him pay."  
  
A car door slammed in the distance, making her flinch again. El's gaze hardened, his expression showing his distaste at last. "You think his death will bring your father or your sister back?" he demanded quietly. "Because it won't. Death can never bring life back. Death is final."  
  
She muttered something inaudible.  
  
"Como?" he said softly, dangerously.  
  
"I said," she informed him quietly, "**** you." The terror vanished from her face as she sprang to her feet and yanked out her own gun, lunging sideways into the cover of a parked car with almost supernatural speed. She opened fire with lethal accuracy, forcing him to dodge sideways out of her line of fire without getting a shot off at her.  
  
Running footsteps behind him heralded the arrival of a score of men, all of them in black, all carrying guns. El spun to face them, allowing a small smile to touch his lips. If it was an ambush they wanted, he was more than game for it.  
  
Legs braced in a shooter's stance, he opened fire, catching the lead man in the chest with his first shot, and the second in the face as his comrade fell, the others stumbling over the bodies as they spread out, diving for cover between the parked cars.  
  
El picked off three more as they leaned out from cover to shoot at him with everything from handguns to rifles. Diving and rolling, he let the empty clip fall to the ground as he slid a new one in and locked it in place. The cartel members were shouting to each other, bullets were zipping through the air, and El Mariachi was in his element.  
  
Leaping to his feet, he took out eleven more cartel gunmen in rapid succession, shifting position to bring them into his line of fire. The remaining five had formed a protective circle around Marisa's position.  
  
El scowled. Marisa was the one he wanted, not these faceless cartel lackeys. She was the key; the last Barillo. El refused to think of Estrella as a Barillo; she hated them, there was no reason to include her in that wretched group. Without Marisa, the cartel would collapse, or perhaps be taken over by a stronger, more opportunistic group. Either way, it would be the end of the cartel that had so nearly ended all three of their lives.  
  
One of the five went down, his arm nearly blown off by one of El's shots. The other four shifted position again, covering the hole in their defenses left by their fallen compatriot, but not quickly enough. El lunged at them, taking three more down, spinning to avoid the hail of return fire the remaining cartel member sent his way.  
  
He could see the fear in the man's eyes as he leveled his gun at his skull. He'd seen that look before, in the eyes of criminals whose time has quite suddenly and unexpectedly come. El felt no pity, only contempt. This creature and his kind were responsible for so much death and destruction in his country; he would gladly kill all of them.  
  
This man would die, and then so would Marisa.  
  
He pulled the trigger-  
  
And without any warning whatsoever, the whole situation went straight to hell.  
  
His gun gave a hollow click; out of bullets. Snarling a curse, El fell back as the cartel member sprang lightly to his feet and charged straight at him. El flung the empty gun at the man's head, dove, rolled, and drew the knife from its hiding-place in his boot. A gunshot echoed down the street, coming from behind him, and a line of fire tore across his scalp.  
  
Blood began running into his eyes, and he swiped at it with his free hand, keeping the knife between himself and his opponent while trying to see who had shot at him.  
  
Abruptly, he got it. The position those five men had been covering, had given their lives to protect- there was no one there.  
  
Marisa had slipped out of the trap somehow, and unless El did something about it very soon, she was going to kill him.  
  
'Focus, Mariachi!' he told himself, forcing himself to return his attention to the cartel member who was circling slowly, a knife in his hand also. Carolina had often said just that when she taught him to knife- fight. Of course, it didn't really matter if he was focused or not when they used to spar; she'd always cut him to ribbons either way.  
  
The cartel member held his knife blade-downwards as though to stab, but with the sharp edge outward. Clearly he had training, and that made El wary. Still, even experts occasionally made mistakes, if the circumstances were right, and El had a fair idea of how to create those circumstances.  
  
He lunged at his opponent, making the man skip nimbly back, then deliberately stumbled, and made a very unprofessional pause to swipe again at the blood in his eyes. Sure enough, the man took the bait, and closed for the kill.  
  
He seemed rather surprised, overall, to look down and see El's knife sunk to the hilt in his chest. Then his eyes misted over and he fell.  
  
El was turning to face Marisa when he heard the shot. He completed his turn, and paused. She was standing not ten feet away, holding a gun that was still smoking ever so slightly. He looked down.  
  
Red was spreading from neat button-sized hole in his midriff.  
  
Then the pain hit, and drove him to his knees. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. He had been shot many times before, but never like this. This time, there was no fire of vengeance or retribution to keep him alive against the odds.  
  
He was barely conscious when he felt someone dragging him to his feet. That same someone was half-carrying, half-dragging him to... somewhere. Throwing him roughly down on... the back seat of a car... wrapping something tightly around his body, slowing the flow of blood... the sound of an engine starting... Marisa's voice... "You'll live... maybe... doesn't matter... will come... for you."  
  
Her voice was growing more distant with each moment, but El didn't care. He could have been wrong, but as blackness took him he thought he saw Carolina and his little girl, beckoning him to join them.  
  
*****  
  
Sands was just getting shakily to his feet, holding tightly onto Estrella's arm, when the sound of gunshots reached them. Lots of gunshots.  
  
Sands smiled tightly and commented, "Sounds like El's got quite the party going on. What say we head over and crash it, hmm?"  
  
*****  
  
The shooting had been stopped for several minutes by the time they reached the site of El's battle against the cartel. Leaving Sands leaning against a parked car, Estrella searched the street, finding nineteen dead men, and one was very close to death indeed.  
  
He was lying near the curb in a pool of blackish blood, his right arm nearly blown away from his body. Estrella would have thought he was dead, but as she passed him he moaned a little and shifted feebly.  
  
Estrella was at his side in an instant. "You are cartel?" she demanded without preamble, her voice callous and cold. "What happened here?"  
  
The man coughed and whispered, "Ambush... Marisa Barillo set it up... we were... supposed to take one of you alive..."  
  
Estrella snorted. "It didn't work, though, did it? Where's Marisa?"  
  
"Gone," the man whispered. "She took... that crazy Mariachi... and drove off... in the car we brought..." His voice was almost inaudible now. "I think she shot him up real bad..."  
  
Estrella swore under her breath at him as the man's face went slack in death.  
  
Getting to her feet, she considered for a moment, then shrugged. There was nothing she could do for El at the moment, and besides, she had an appointment to keep the next morning.  
  
Sands demanded to know what she had found out, and Estrella told him, her voice cool and matter-of-fact.  
  
"You aren't planning on going after him?" the blind agent demanded incredulously. "A good friend of yours is badly wounded and in the hands of people who will do unspeakable things to him, and you aren't going after him?" He paused, and then said, "Forgive me if I'm being dense, but why the hell not?"  
  
Estrella shrugged, even though he couldn't see it anyway, and replied easily, "I hear developing a conscience this late in life can be detrimental to one's health."  
  
She hadn't been aware, up until that point, that a man with no eyes could glare, but Sands did so with admirable intensity.  
  
"We have an appointment to keep tomorrow," she reminded him. "A rescue just doesn't fit my schedule at the moment."  
  
Sands shook his head, muttering, "A schedule. Right. How could I forget?" 


	17. Guerro

'I thought I had her figured,' Sands mused as the car rolled up the long, winding road to the Oro del Sol resort. 'I thought she would be willing to abandon her immediate plan to save her friend. This callous attitude, though... it's very...'  
  
'Mercenary?' another small voice suggested, sounding distinctly amused.  
  
Sands almost smiled. 'Touché. She did strike me as rather El Mariachi-ish, all heroic, noble, and self-sacrificing, though.'  
  
The small voice snorted. 'What, pray, gave you THAT impression?'  
  
Sands paused to consider. 'Well,' he thought slowly, 'She did save my life... Ok, so it was for money... She saved that chicle boy's life... to keep him from blowing her cover... damn. Not much there, is there?'  
  
'Nope,' the voice agreed shortly. 'I'd say you've been a bit of a ****ing idiot of late, but,' it paused, giving weight to the irony, 'That's just me talking.'  
  
Now Sands did smile a little. 'What can I say?'  
  
He was leaning back casually, his legs stretched out before him. He could feel the bright sunlight outside filtering through the glass of the windshield, soaking into his black clothing. Sands rather liked that image, actually. He liked the thought of the sunlight, so bright, so beautiful, called inexorably into darkness. Some things were almost better felt than seen.  
  
"Something funny?" Estrella asked from beside him in the driver's seat.  
  
His slight smile faded. "Not really," he replied easily. Let her wonder; he wasn't about to tell her what he was thinking.  
  
"We are nearly there," she observed unnecessarily.  
  
"Worried?" Sands inquired.  
  
"Not me," she said mildly. "I just hope they have my money ready. Yourself?" Her tone was very dry.  
  
"Not me," he retorted, throwing her words back at her. He paused for a moment, considering. If he'd misjudged her... "Why should I worry?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm being sold to a cartel, and I don't even know why."  
  
"I like the theory you mentioned earlier," Estrella replied, the barest hint of mischief in her voice.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"That they had heard of your extreme good looks and wanted to meet you."  
  
"Not that that reason is enough to make you stick around after you've got your money," Sands said pointedly, ignoring her joke.  
  
Estrella said nothing.  
  
**********  
  
They were escorted into the main resort building by half a dozen heavily armed men and left in the lobby to wait. Sands could hear the splashing of a fountain on polished stone, and the song of birds outside. The room must have been huge, because at the smallest sound, not one, but two echoes could be heard.  
  
Standing next to him, leaning against a cool marble wall, Estrella was silent. Sands couldn't even hear her breathe, not two feet away from him. The silence unnerved him, but he held his peace.  
  
At last they were led through another set of doors into a much smaller room. Sands listened hard, and picked out the sounds of at least two, possibly three people, one in front of him some five feet away and seated, and one or two along the right-hand wall; he wasn't sure.  
  
"Bienvenidos al Oro del Sol," said a smooth, cultured voice. "Why don't you both sit down?"  
  
**************  
  
"Estrella my dear," said Miguel Guerro warmly. "You are more beautiful every time I see you; truly lovely."  
  
"Gracias, Miguel," replied Estrella courteously, but there was a chilly note to her voice.  
  
"Ah, but of course," said Guerro smoothly. "You just want your money."  
  
"You have Sands," Estrella said shortly. "Pay what you owe for him, and I will be leaving."  
  
"You are sure he is-" Guerro began, but he cut off at the sound of a small object, perhaps the size of a cellular phone, being set down on the desk. "You are sure."  
  
"Yes. This is the man you were looking for."  
  
A pause, and then- "Very well," Guerro murmured. Sands heard the distinctive thump of a very full briefcase on a wooden surface.  
  
"Five million?" Estrella asked, making no move to open the briefcase and check for herself.  
  
"Five million American dollars," Guerro confirmed.  
  
"Gracias," she said again, and turned and walked out.  
  
'Sold, to the highest bidder,' Sands thought sardonically, echoing his words to her.  
  
"So you are Agent Sands of the CIA," said Guerro coolly.  
  
Sands refused to dignify this with a response, and simply waited for the man to continue. He let the silence hang for another minute, then said with a touch of impatience, "Just what is it that you wanted me for?"  
  
"To talk," said Guerro calmly. "Only to talk."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Would you care for anything to drink?" Guerro asked, playing the ever-polite host.  
  
'One would almost be tempted to believe,' Sands thought contemptuously, 'That this bastard hadn't just bought me like a slave.'  
  
'Not like you objected particularly,' the small voice of opposition in his mind chipped in. 'Do you have a death wish, Sands?'  
  
'Shut up.'  
  
Aloud, he said, "Thank you, no. To talk about what?"  
  
He could almost feel the other man's smile. "Very focused, aren't you. You know what you want, and you'll get it, by whatever means necessary, and," he paused delicately before continuing, "To hell with proper protocol. Am I right?"  
  
"Perhaps," said Sands in a bored tone. "But for all your clever observations, you still haven't told me what I want to know. To talk about what?" Another smile, he could tell, but this one a bit more forced than the last. Sands had a powerful gift for pissing people off, and he enjoyed the chance to use it to the utmost. It was something of a game for him. And of course, and off-balance opponent was a small added benefit.  
  
***************  
  
Listening at keyholes, Estrella decided, was not a particularly dignified activity. Educational, perhaps, but not dignified.  
  
Though to be strictly fair, she wasn't actually at the keyhole. No, she was some four or five feet behind Guerro's chair, and about three feet down.  
  
Outside.  
  
In the bushes.  
  
Under different circumstances, the situation might have struck her as extremely funny.  
  
She had been walking around the perimeter of the building back to her car when she had passed two first-story windows, both of which were open. She might have simply kept walking if she hadn't heard Sands' voice as clearly as if he stood in front of her. Estrella had quickly realized that the two windows were the same as the ones on either side of Guerro's desk.  
  
A moment of careful calculations, a surreptitious glance around for any human observers, and one mad scramble had found her slightly to the right of the right-hand window and, more importantly, out of the view of the security camera mounted halfway up the wall. Easing into a slightly more comfortable position with her back against the building's wall, she continued to listen.  
  
**********  
  
"I have a business proposition for you," Guerro told Sands.  
  
"Really," said Sands neutrally.  
  
"I have, shall we say," Guerro seemed to search for just the right phrase, "A small military project in the works, an operation of sorts, which should be coming to completion very soon."  
  
"A military project?" Sands asked, beginning to get interested in spite of himself.  
  
"As I said, a small one only," Guerro assured him. "There is a certain property I wish to acquire, and I have assembled a force to secure it for me, but there are a few small, almost trivial bits of information I require in order to ensure my operation's complete success."  
  
"I'm listening," said Sands calmly.  
  
"Information that I believe might be found in the CIA's database," Guerro told him flatly.  
  
"You want access codes."  
  
"Indeed," Guerro acknowledged.  
  
"Now, that's very nice," said Sands, "The question is, why should I give them to you?"  
  
"What if I told you," Guerro inquired almost absently, "That I would use the information for my military operation to destroy the headquarters of the Barillo cartel?"  
  
"You want to destroy the Barillos?" Sands asked incredulously, his surprise momentarily getting the better of him.  
  
"They have been encroaching on our business for too long," Guerro told him quietly. "But for them I would control all of the business in this region, but they insist on testing my strength. This must stop. Also," Guerro confided, giving the vocal equivalent of an intent stare, "I need someone to lead my attack force. Someone with experience and training, and someone clever enough to be able to achieve my goals for the attack."  
  
Sands was not impressed. "So go hire a mercenary force. I understand decent leadership is generally included in the package."  
  
"No," Guerro said sharply. "My own people will fight for me and," his tone brooked no argument, "I want you lead them for me."  
  
"And the codes?"  
  
Guerro shrugged. "I would pay well for them, and they will make both our jobs easier. So will you do it?"  
  
Sands considered for a moment, then said, "Well, I'll be needing more details later, of course, but sure, it sounds like fun. Why not?"  
  
**********  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Those were the last words Estrella heard as she sprang to her feet, grabbed the briefcase lying in the dirt next to her, and sprang to her feet. She jogged back around the building to the front doors and marched into the lobby without waiting for an invitation.  
  
Her booted feet made sounds loud as gunshots on the marble floor as she strode over to the door of Guerro's office and pushed it open.  
  
Guerro glanced up as she entered, his eyes widening ever so slightly. "Estrella? What-"  
  
"I want to help you," she announced. "I've wanted to take down the Barillo operation for years, ever since Marisa sent her killers out after me. I'm not going to miss the chance to help bring them down."  
  
To her surprise, Guerro didn't look remotely surprised at her request. In fact, he was smiling like a father would at a clever daughter. "I thought you might, particularly since," he fixed her with a penetrating gaze, "They recently captured a good friend of yours, one 'El'." 


	18. Reaching an Understanding

Estrella stood at a window, looking out over the beautifully kept gardens of the Oro del Sol. Tiny frogs sang in the trees, and the stars and moon bathed the whole scene in a gentle, silvery glow as a cool breeze made the gauzy curtains over the window shift like restless spirits.  
  
Behind her, a door slammed, and footsteps sounded on the tiled floor of the suite. "Do you have the details you wanted?" she inquired, not turning around.  
  
"Oh yeah," said Sands smugly. "I'm just so glad I signed on with this little venture," he told her, wicked amusement in his tone. "It's going to be so entertaining."  
  
"Then I'm happy you're finally having some fun," Estrella drawled. "Now, about those details..."  
  
"Fine, fine," said Sands, throwing himself down on the bed without bothering to take off his boots first, much to her annoyance. "What do you want to know?"  
  
"For starters, where are we going, exactly?" Estrella asked, also sitting down on the bed and drawing her long legs up to her chest.  
  
"Marisa Barillo has moved her cartel's headquarters out of Cancun, and fairly recently, from what I gathered," he told her. "She's set up shop out in the jungle a good distance away from any major cities or towns. The property consists mostly of a large house, various storage buildings, and private airstrip."  
  
"A private airstrip?" Estrella repeated, frowning at the agent slightly. "How big are we talking?"  
  
"Fairly small," he replied. "I doubt it could handle much more than some of these little single-engine jobs you sometimes see in private hands. The setup of the whole place is fairly odd actually. It's in three completely separate sections, each connected to the next by this little unpaved service road, which is the only access to the whole property, short of flying in. Someone driving on that road would reach the house first, then the storage units, then the airstrip, with about two minutes of driving at a decent speed between each."  
  
"How far are they off any of the major roads?" Estrella asked.  
  
"Half an hour's drive, maybe," said Sands slowly. "But of course the road in is well-watched."  
  
"Of course," Estrella murmured, considering their options. "Just how does Guerro plan on dealing with that?"  
  
Sands grimaced. "Marisa is fond of horseback riding, and apparently there's a whole mess of trails cut through the woods surrounding the property." He paused significantly. "Miles of trails, as it happens."  
  
"Oh my Christ", Estrella growled, borrowing one of Sands' pet phrases. "Let me guess. He expects the whole assault force to ship out to the main road, get out of our vehicles like good little children, cut our way through to one of those bridle paths, then march up to the house, single-file like beads on a string, and either take or destroy it."  
  
Sands sat for a moment, expressionless, waiting to see if she'd finished her summary. Noting that she had, he waited another beat, then smiled and said, "Actually, we'll be sending part of the bead string around on yet more trails to secure the airstrip and hangar while the rest of us take the house. The plan was to then meet them halfway at the storage units, which Guerro wants burned to the ground. But otherwise, yeah, you had it essentially right."  
  
"Cute," she grumbled. "Really cute."  
  
"Of course," said Sands with a mocking little half-bow, "Both Guerro and I are open to better suggestions."  
  
Estrella completely wasted a glare on him.  
  
"You know," said Sands thoughtfully after a moment, "Guerro didn't seem all that surprised at your demand to come along."  
  
"He knew they have El and he knows that El and I are friends," Estrella pointed out with a touch of impatience. "Two and two really do add up to four occasionally, Sands."  
  
His head came up a little at that. "But then why didn't you mention El in your request to come along with us?"  
  
Estrella said nothing.  
  
"You knew," Sands accused quietly. "You knew all along why they wanted to talk to me. You knew Guerro was planning this attack. You knew, and you didn't tell me."  
  
"It was part of my agreement with Guerro," she muttered. "And I didn't have details. All I knew was that he was planning some kind of assault on the Barillos, and that you were going to be involved somehow."  
  
"So I was your ticket in," Sands supplied, his tone flat. "My capture and delivery put you in the right place at the right time, to hear the right conversation, and to make Guerro grateful enough to let you into his plan." He paused, then said, "I guess I only have one question, really. Why?"  
  
"Revenge," she told him softly. "The Barillos betrayed me. They sent their killers after me. I've been running from them for a long time." Her voice hardened. "I'm not going to run anymore."  
  
Sands was silent.  
  
Without a word Estrella got up, padded silently across the tiled floor in her bare feet, and turned out the lights with a tiny click.  
  
Behind her, Sands swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reached down, and pulled off his boots. He unfastened the gun belt around his hips and draped it carefully over the headboard, within easy reach.  
  
She walked back over to the bed and draped her own gun belt across the opposite corner of the headboard, then slid under the sheets, shivering a little ('What is it with hotel rooms and cold sheets?'). Without a word he moved over to make a space for her, more than was necessary. He paused a moment, then deliberately turned his back to her and lay down.  
  
Remembering something, she reached up with one hand, drew one of her own guns, and slid it under her pillow, the gun belt tapping against the wooden headboard ever so slightly.  
  
"Any of those bullets meant for me?" Sands drawled suddenly, making her jump.  
  
"Of course not," she said sharply. "I don't want you dead. One would think you would've figured that out by now."  
  
"Would I?" he retorted, still with his back to her.  
  
"I saved your life," she pointed out quietly. "More than once."  
  
"For money," he argued. "There's a big difference between keeping merchandise alive and saving the life of, say, a friend. You sold me to a drug cartel."  
  
"I knew you wouldn't be hurt," she reminded him, wishing she could see his face.  
  
"But did it matter to you?" he shot back. "Would it have mattered if they had wanted to kill me?"  
  
"I..."  
  
"Well?"  
  
Estrella bit her lip, then answered quietly, "It would have. If I knew they were going to kill you, I don't think I could've turned you over to them."  
  
"And why is that?" Sands inquired coolly. "And don't waste my time by saying you think you love me or any shit like that. Your sleeping with me was a way to ensure that I wouldn't leave you right away, nothing more."  
  
"Then what am I supposed to say?" she asked frankly.  
  
"Well," he said slowly, "I guess, for now, you could just plead unexpected emergence of conscience. Not particularly inspired, I suppose, but at least somewhat feasible."  
  
"Alright," Estrella agreed. "Sure. If that's what you want."  
  
"And now," he concluded, making a show of shifting into a more comfortable position, "If you don't mind, I'm going to try and get some fucking sleep. Big day tomorrow and all that."  
  
As she drifted into the darkness of sleep, Estrella smiled a little and thought at the agent, 'Fine, then. I don't love you, but... I think I could get used to having you around.' 


	19. Showdown

"Beads on a fucking string." Sands scowled at the man just behind him. Whether the man noticed, he couldn't tell, but either way he got no response.  
  
"Say again, Red One?" His radio crackled a bit from transmitting through the thick vegetation that stretched for kilometers all around them. Sands' scowl deepened. He had no trouble picking up on Estrella's sarcasm, even through all the static.  
  
"Negative, White One," Sands drawled. The formal responses irritated him, but force of habit made him stick to protocol nonetheless.  
  
"I copy, Red One." Estrella paused. "Where are you?"  
  
"Couldn't tell ya, White One," Sands answered. "One miserable mud pit of a trail sounds much like another-"he was silent for a few seconds- "Red Two tells me we're still fifteen minutes from our target at current travel speed. Yourselves?"  
  
"We're about ten feet from the edge of the forest, actually," she replied. "Red Group is in position for our assault on the house."  
  
"Copy that. Running a little early, huh?"  
  
"That's the idea, Red One," she said dryly. "Still, we'll be nice and sit here in the bushes like good little children until you're ready on your end."  
  
"I appreciate your generosity, White One," Sands retorted. "Any activity at the house?"  
  
"Negative." Estrella's voice carried grim good humor. "Silent as the grave."  
  
"Cut the chatter, Red One, White One," Guerro snapped, listening in from his position out on the road with their vehicles and a small backup force, Green Group.  
  
"So sorry, Green One," Sands drawled, not sounding apologetic in the least.  
  
"I doubt it," Guerro's voice dropped from chilly to frigid. "You have five minutes to get into position. Green One out."  
  
*******  
  
Sands swore under his breath as his radio went silent. Turning to his second-in-command, he snapped, "What the fuck is the holdup? We're running behind!"  
  
"Yes, senor," the man said respectfully, brushing past Sands and continuing his cautious walk down the narrow, muddy trail that would bring them out near the airstrip and hangar.  
  
********  
  
Estrella settled a little more comfortably against the tree trunk that hid her from casual observation by anyone up at the house. Water dripped rhythmically onto her head from the canopy above, but it was warm and thus easy to ignore. All manner of small, multi-legged creatures took advantage of the lull in activity on her part to make a thorough inspection of her gear and person. She slapped irritably at her arms, left bare by her black tank top, as biting flies tried to drill into her flesh. She resisted the urge to curse at the creatures, mindful of the muffled snorts of laughter emanating from the bushes all around her.  
  
There's little soldiers like better than a joke at a commander's expense.  
  
"I survive a hundred gunfights only to be eaten alive by something less than a centimeter long. Ridiculous," she muttered, taking a moment to loosen her guns in their holsters at her hips and under her arms, and to adjust the position of the rifle slung across her chest so that it no longer dug into her stomach.  
  
Her radio emitted a tiny beep. She freed it from her belt and raised it to her mouth. "White One."  
  
"White One, this is Red Two."  
  
Estrella's breath froze in her throat, nearly making her choke. "Go ahead, Red Two," she said, forcing her tone into something resembling normality. The only people who should be on the command channel were Sands and Guerro, so for Red Two to be contacting her this way could mean only one thing. Sands was either in serious trouble, or dead.  
  
"We've got trouble, White One," the man said grimly. "Heavy resistance at the hangar. Red One and Reds Three through Ten have split off from our main attack force and are attempting to get the opposition caught in a crossfire as we speak. We will be delayed, repeat, delayed for the rendezvous at the storage buildings. Advise."  
  
Estrella bit her lip for a moment, then replied, "Clear out the hangar, Red Two. The plan calls for a pincer, and we can't afford to have anyone come up behind you. Take as much time as you need; rendezvous as soon as is humanly possible. Take the hangar, post your rearguard, and move out."  
  
"Copy that. Red Two out."  
  
"White One out."  
  
Estrella switched to her squad's channel and murmured, "White Group, be advised; we're being delayed again. Red Group has run into opposition at the hangar. We wait."  
  
Murmured acknowledgements followed her transmission, and Estrella settled back in, trying not to think about Sands. Trying to ignore the very real possibility of his getting killed.  
  
*********  
  
El Mariachi awoke in complete darkness, and wondered if he had gone blind. He felt sick- his whole abdomen ached, and he wondered vaguely if he was going to throw up. He could feel his heart pounding and racing. He raised a hand that shook noticeably to his face and rubbed his eyes. His skin felt as hot as the body of a black car left out in the sun under his trembling fingers. He swallowed painfully, his mouth dry as paper.  
  
He tried to sit up, but the room spun underneath him, and he fell back with a groan.  
  
Light stabbed his eyes, suddenly blinding him. He threw a trembling arm up in front of his face. Everything was blurry as he slowly lowered his arm to squint unsteadily at the woman standing next to the sweat-soaked cot on which he lay. "Where am I? Estrella?"  
  
The woman laughed cruelly, making him flinch. "Oh, no, El Mariachi. I'm not Estrella. My dear cousin is otherwise occupied at the moment, so I thought I'd come down here and keep you company." She caught the frown on his face and continued, "Where's here? We are underground, as you may have gathered. Underneath the storage units. My advisors thought it best that I stay out of the way while they dealt with your friends, and," she laughed, "I am certain I am quite safe down here."  
  
"Why-"El began, but he cut off sharply as a cell phone rang.  
  
Marisa raised it to her ear and spat, "Yes? What! Well, retake it, then! We don't have the troops? Why the fuck not? I see. Attacking at the house as well? I understand. Fall back. Just lure them here and get rid of them!" She shut the phone off and favored El with a thin smile. "Your friends are trying to rescue you, isn't that sweet? I hope you won't take it personally if I have them all killed?"  
  
********  
  
Sands snapped off one last shot, and heard his target collapse in a heap. He sprang up from his cover behind a packing crate and jogged forward to check his victim. The man twitched and moaned as Sands approached, so the agent shot him again, this time in the head. The moaning cut off abruptly.  
  
The man had been the last of the resistance at the hangar. Early on, the battle had been going badly for Red Group as the enemy used their superior numbers and defensive stance to keep them pinned down at the edge of the jungle. Then Sands had taken a small force and circled around behind the hangar, coordinating a crossfire with Red Two and his people.  
  
One brisk firefight, and it was all over.  
  
Sands nodded once in grim satisfaction, feeling the pleasant tingle of adrenaline flood his body as he addressed his force. "Reds Three through Ten, stay here as rearguard. Radio Guerro if you get into serious trouble- he'll send Green Group straight down the road and to hell with surveillance." He favored them with a smirk. "Though I doubt you'll have trouble. If they don't know we're here by now, how will they ever notice?" A few of the soldiers snorted. "For the rest of us, it's time to leave."  
  
**********  
  
Estrella leaned a little out of cover, sighted through the scope on her rifle, and took out one of the men sniping at White Group out of a second-story window of the house. Glass shattered as he tumbled out of the window to the ground below, but another man was soon there to take his place.  
  
Estrella swore passionately. They needed to take the house, and soon. Already some of the Barillo fighters were falling back down the service road, running for the storage buildings. Unless she could follow and keep them engaged, they would be waiting for Sands as he reached the storage buildings from the opposite direction (from the airstrip and hangar). Red Group alone wouldn't be enough to deal with them; the strategy depended on White Group being there to back them up and complete the pincer.  
  
She was forced to flatten herself to the ground as another blistering volley zipped lethally over her head, courtesy of the dozen or Barillo gunmen still in the house.  
  
She took a deep breath and started bellowing orders. "White Two, take Three through Fifteen and give us cover fire! Sixteen through Thirty, on me!"  
  
White Two shouted an acknowledgement and swiftly organized his assigned force, laying down a horizontal hail of cover fire. Estrella sprang to her feet and raced for the house, dodging and ducking. White Sixteen, running lightly beside her, yelled, "Commander, are we taking the house?"  
  
"Not exactly," she said with a wicked grin, showing the man a hand grenade at her belt as she slowed to a jog. He smiled evilly in return and followed suit. They had come around the front of the house, and were no longer being shot at.  
  
Estrella drew one of her handguns and shot out a window on the second story, pulled the pin on the grenade, and flung it into the house.  
  
A moment of silence passed, then an echoing boom and the screams and cries of men inside the house, and the crackle of flames. Smoke began to pour out of the broken window, and she could hear the hail of gunfire from inside the house falter.  
  
She left White Two and his people to complete the mopping up, and took her squad down the road towards the storage buildings.  
  
********  
  
"Well, that wasn't too bad," Sands observed, standing casually next to Estrella as she surveyed the bodies strewn all over the ground around the storage buildings. Ultimately they had been able to complete the pincer maneuver more or less as planned, and had caught the remaining Barillo cartel fighters between their two groups. After that, it was a slaughter.  
  
Estrella's portion of White Group and Sands' Red Group (except for the hangar rearguard) were searching the storage units, but thus far had found nothing unexpected or unusual. Still, they proceeded with all deliberate caution in case of traps or other nasty surprises.  
  
Estrella's radio beeped, and White Two's voice crackled over the airwaves. "White One, this is White Two."  
  
"Go ahead, White Two."  
  
Two's voice was slurred with exhaustion, and he coughed slightly before answering. "The house is secure, repeat, we have secured our objective. We've searched from attic to cellar and found no one alive."  
  
Estrella went very pale. "Say again, White Two?"  
  
"We found no one alive, White One."  
  
"Was Marisa Barillo found dead?"  
  
"Negative, White One," White Two sounded grim. "We found no sign of her, or of El Mariachi."  
  
Estrella gritted her teeth. "I copy. Radio Guerro and give him the update, would you?"  
  
"Will do. White Two out."  
  
Sands cocked his head to one side. "Did I hear that right? They didn't find Marisa?"  
  
"Si."  
  
"Fascinating," Sands drawled. "Now, if I were a cowardly little rat like her..." He trailed off thoughtfully, his head cocked a little to one side, then continued. "I wouldn't be brave enough to run for it, and risk getting my precious ass shot up. Which implies... we just aren't looking hard enough."  
  
********  
  
Sands lay on the cold concrete floor of the largest of the storage sheds, listening. The fighters under his command stood outside in varying states of bemusement, watching him and muttering amongst themselves.  
  
The agent smiled tightly to himself. He could hardly blame them for thinking he was crazy. After all, he was beginning to have doubts himself.  
  
********  
  
Marisa paced like a trapped animal as El watched. He was shivering convulsively, though the close air in the underground room was quite warm. He had managed to sit up at last, though the room still seemed determined to spin under him. Still, he watched Marisa closely, listening to the footsteps of many people overhead, searching the storage unit.  
  
She toyed distractedly with her gun, flipping the safety on and off, snarling vicious-sounding things under her breath. She seemed to have decided to simply wait out the invaders, hiding, so to speak, under their very noses.  
  
El shook his head fractionally. This would not do.  
  
The irony of the situation wasn't lost on the mariachi. The great El, hero of a hundred battles against bad guys of every description, now all but surrounded by his allies-and completely thwarted by one woman with a gun.  
  
This simply would not do.  
  
Marisa's pacing brought her past the end of the cot.  
  
El lunged, tackling her into the opposite wall, though dizziness nearly made him black out and pain from his abdomen tore through his whole body. Marisa screamed, struggling, then struck him hard on the side of the head with the gun.  
  
It went off with a roar, the bullet passing close enough to ruffle his hair.  
  
******  
  
Sands leapt to his feet as the distinctive crack of a gunshot reached him, echoing up through the floor.  
  
"Damn, am I good," he muttered in great satisfaction, leaping to his feet. He reached out with his right hand until it came in contact with a tall stack of boxes. They were thick with dust, and coated his fingers. The floor next to them, however, was not.  
  
"Bingo..."  
  
He dealt the boxes a sharp kick, and they toppled over with a crash. He ran a hand over the newly uncovered floor until his hand encountered a ring set in the concrete. "Amateurs," he muttered, grabbing it with both hands and yanking, wrenching his lower back.  
  
A section of the floor lifted away, and Sands set it down next to the newly uncovered hole as quietly as he could. He paused for a moment to listen, but there was no response from anyone down below.  
  
The agent allowed himself another smile, and dropped through the opening, though he misjudged the drop slightly and landed with a loud thud.  
  
He held perfectly still for a fraction of a second-long enough to pick out the sound of someone breathing not far away from him; several someones, as it happened. Fabric rustled, and he *sensed* a gun being brought to bear on him.  
  
Without bothering to aim, he opened fire.  
  
********  
  
El watched Sands drop down from the trapdoor in the ceiling, and sincerely believed that he was going to die. There was no way in hell the agent could get Marisa without blowing him away as well.  
  
Marisa, still on the floor beside him, brought her gun to bear on the blind agent, her eyes holding the blank fire of murder.  
  
The mariachi watched, detached and cool, as Sands drew his own guns with blinding speed and opened fire.  
  
El closed his eyes.  
  
*********  
  
Sands shot until both his guns ran out of bullets, then slowly lowered the weapons to his sides and re-holstered them. He flexed his fingers meditatively, making his black leather gloves creak in protest, then said conversationally, "You can get up now, El."  
  
He listened, and picked out the mariachi's ragged breathing, but no sound of the man getting up. Vaguely annoyed, he asked, "Whassa matter, did I scare ya? Poor baby."  
  
The mariachi's voice came back to him, harsh and rough. He sounded very much the worse for wear. "I don't think I can get up."  
  
"Well, you aren't shot, or at least, not by me." Sands walked over and crouched down next to the mariachi, though not before giving what was left of Marisa's body a good, solid kick. He grabbed El's upper arm, feeling the mariachi's continued involuntary trembling, and used his teeth to yank the glove off his free hand. He laid the back of his hand against El's forehead for a moment, then withdrew. He was laughing.  
  
"What is so funny?" El demanded irritably.  
  
Still chuckling, Sands hauled the mariachi to his feet, saying cheerily, "Tell me, my friend; what do you know about cocaine?" 


	20. Still

Three days later, they were back in Culiacan. They had driven all of the previous day and most of the night, so the sun was just rising when they arrived.

Sands was vaguely surprised at himself; he'd managed to keep his temper in check despite being trapped in a small car with El for what seemed like several eternities. Then again, he was pretty sure he had slept through most of the trip anyway. Not having to do one's share of the driving also helped, he figured.

'Of course,' supplied the small, sly voice in the back of his mind, 'Having Estrella fall asleep on your shoulder with El there to see it- twice –wasn't all bad either.'

Sands smirked to himself. 'Oh, gee, I dunno. I was pretty happy about the five million dollars in the trunk, too. Minor detail, I guess.'

Estrella's voice brought him back out of his reverie. "We're home."

Sands grinned. "Correction; you're home."

"Oh? You got somewhere else to go? A hot date, maybe?" Estrella teased.

Sands made a show of stretching as the car slowed to a stop on the street outside her small house, smirking. "Well, actually, there was something I forgot to tell you. You see, El and I got to talking on the way home, and..." He trailed off with a comically suggestive leer.

Estrella snorted, then, playing along, said vaguely, "Oh. That's nice. You boys will be cute together."

Rising to the bait, unable to resist and wishing he could see El's face, he drawled in an overly dramatic, soap-opera voice, "Oh, I suppose. But sometimes I wonder if he really loves me, or just likes my ass."

Estrella snickered a little, and he heard the crunch of gravel as she turned to look at El. "Well? What have you got to say for yourself?"

Silence.

Finally, El replied in a quiet, dry voice. "Americans. So vain and shallow. How could I not love him?" He turned, carrying the briefcase full of Guerro's money, and started walking slowly up to the house.

Sands' and Estrella's laughter drifted after him.

------------

Estrella was making dinner for the three of them when Sands heard the knock on the door. He heard El get up, his chair scraping on the tiled floor, and stalk over to the shut and bolted front door, his mariachi pants jingling cheerfully away. The bolt slid back after a moment's pause, and El probably tried to say something.

However, he didn't get the chance. A fast-moving cannon-ball of bright, chattering, cheerful energy slammed into Sands, almost sending over backwards off the chair, yelling, "Senor, senor! Regresó! Y no estás muerte!"

Sands grinned and grabbed double handfuls of the kid's baggy T-shirt, holding him at arm's length. "What, you think a bunch of stupid MexiCAN'Ts are gonna be enough to finish me off? Of course I made it back."

He felt the kid wriggle in his grip, so he let him go, resettling himself on the chair and fishing in the breast pocket of his black shirt for a cigarette, listening to the jingle of El's pants again as the Mariachi sat back down. He heard the kid start to walk to the door of the kitchen, presumably to visit Estrella, then turn around again to face him, though he could tell the kid wasn't looking at him. "What?" he demanded, around the cigarette held in his lips.

"Es... es el dinero? The kid asked, his voice breathless with wonder. He walked back over to stand next to the table.

Sands heard Estrella's footsteps on the floor as she walked over to stand behind Marco. He heard a sliding sound, leather on wood, as she grabbed the handle of the simple black briefcase that held pride of place in the center of the table and dragged it over where the kid could see it up close. Naturally, the kid asked if he could open it and see the money.

Estrella laughed. "What, you're telling me a man of the world such as yourself has never seen five millions dollars before?"

"Pienso qué no," he replied seriously.

She laughed again. "That's ok. Neither have we; I don't think any of us has bothered to open it yet. Actually... I was thinking that maybe, if it's ok with Mr. Sands and El, you could do the honors for us."

Sands grinned again. "Sure, why the fuck not?"

He heard the kid turn quickly to ask El. "Senor? Me permite?"

Sands heard no reply; he assumed that El nodded, because the kid gave an excited squeal of delight.

Sands shook his head at the kid's enthusiasm as he heard the click of the catches of the briefcase being released, and a faint creak as the lid was thrown back.

The explosion ripped through the room in an instant, hurling Sands back into the far wall with shattering force, something huge, unyielding, and incredibly heavy smashing into him a fraction of a second later. For just a moment, he felt terrible pain, but then it, and he, were gone.

------------------------------------

Sands came to gradually. He didn't know how long he'd lain unconscious in the wreckage of Estrella's house. He became aware, through a haze of vague unreality, that his right leg was twisted at a strange angle, that it hurt like blazing hell, and that there was something extremely heavy on top of it. He reached out, flailing blindly, and his questing hand smacked against a wooden surface. It appeared that the force of the explosion had flung the heavy oak kitchen table over on top of him.

He gritted his teeth as he twisted around, gasping and nearly blacking out as pain shot through his leg and hip, and got the fingers of both hands under the edge of the table. His back wrenched as he strained to lift it off his leg, his muscles screaming, but finally he got it enough off the floor to free his trapped limb, feeling with exquisite clarity what felt like at least two broken bones.

Dizziness washed over him and he lay back down on the cold tiles, feeling broken glass and other things shift and crunch under his body.

Estrella's voice, at first, was so choked and soft that he wondered if he was hearing anything at all. She was somewhere further into the room, by the sound of her, on the floor, and crying. "...Sands?"

"What... the fuck... do you want now?" he asked, with a ghost of his former strength.

"... Are you alright?"

He grimaced. "If I still had the ability, I'd be seeing goddamn spots, but I'll live. You?"

She didn't reply, but started crying again, harder. Her broken sobbing sent a strange chill through him, though he impatiently dismissed it. He tried to stand up, but a knife of pain wrenched in his leg and he fell back with a hiss and a curse.

In the end, he was forced to crawl on his hands and knees through the glass and wood and debris to her side. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, more harshly than he'd really intended, but what the fuck. He was having a bit of a bad day.

"N-no", she replied, her voice choked with emotion. "Here..." He felt her reach out and grab his right wrist, and realized with a sort of detached cynicism that he didn't even have the strength to get rid of her. She dragged his hand over about two feet or so and placed it on something.

Sands felt his heart leap into his throat as his fingers came into contact with fabric; worn T-shirt material. Slowly, mechanically, he felt his way up Marco's body from where Estrella had placed his hand on the kid's waist. On his chest, Sands found the slick wetness of a gaping wound that went deep. He forced himself to touch the kid's neck, to find the artery there.

No pulse. He was dead.

Sands dropped his hand without a word, and sat in silence for a long, long time. At last he asked, in a flat voice, "And El?"

"He's... gone," she whispered. She was no longer crying; perhaps too exhausted then, or perhaps her grief was too great to even allow that. Sands couldn't tell.

"Oh."

She didn't speak for so long that it almost startled him when she finally did. Her voice had no strength left in it, none of her passion or fire. Nothing of the woman he had known. "What will we do now?"

Sands considered. "What people like us have always done."

"What's... that?"

"Prove to the world that we're still standing. One way or another."

"And..." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Are we?"

Sands nodded once. "Still."

--------------------------

End Part I


	21. Author's Notes

So... a few notes from the author... yeah.

First off, about this story. What happens next, at least for now, I leave to your imaginations, as other projects demand my attention-specifically, original work that might actually have a shot at getting read/published in print. (No, there are no specific plans yet, but I'm working on it!)

So that's the bad news. No more nice Mr. Sands for a while. But the good news is I should be posting an original story over at in the not-to-distant future, under the pen name Damaia. It'll be somewhere in the action genre, I think, with a few vampires thrown in. Check it out if you're interested.

Oh, and I'm having a thought here, dear readers. It occurs to me, after watching the Kill Bill movies and OUATIM yet again, that those of you who like crossovers have not one but two blind insane killers in the Mexico/Texas area that are just begging for a fic of their own.

Elle Driver and Sheldon J. Sands.

If anyone's interested in writing something like that (and it could be awesome if it was done right!) I might be persuaded to beta for said individual.

Just a thought.


End file.
